


it’s the end of the world as we know it (and I feel fine)

by rainbowumbrella



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, F/M, First Meetings, M/M, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Slow Burn, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22539952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowumbrella/pseuds/rainbowumbrella
Summary: Jaskier finds Geralt in the living room, groceries still in the paper bag he’s hugging to his chest, looking fixedly at the window that faces his backyard. He moves to stand by the witcher’s side. “Something wrong with the window?” he asks after a moment, tilting his head as if that could reveal something he couldn’t see before. It doesn’t.“There’s nekkers in your backyard,” Geralt states.Jaskier shrugs. “Yeah, they moved in about - oof, just a day after you rudely tackled me right at my front door.”*****aka I see your ‘Geralt owns a ranch AU’ and I raise you one ‘but he’s still a witcher’.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 168
Kudos: 668





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from R.E.M.’s song with the same name.

Loud music is booming from inside the pub, and Jaskier’s lips quirk into the smallest of smiles as he notes that not only was his own music far better, but the crowd sung far higher praises to him. It’s nice to be appreciated. Not that he can honestly say that he has a lot of experience in that with his music - it’s a hit and miss at best for now, but he’ll get there. He’s sure he will.

For now, though, he’s happy to just relax for a moment after an extensive set, laying down on the grass of a small park near the pub, his guitar sitting next to him on one side, and the lovely Ariane of Stael by the other.

They’ve known each other since they were children - their families were close, and always pushing for a match between the two - but as much as Jaskier himself fell head over heels for her sometime during their teenage years, she never seemed to pay him much mind. Not until now, that is.

He’s happy.

No, more than that, he’s -

“Julian, I don’t think this is working out.”

Jaskier startles, propping himself up on his elbows, frowning at the countess still laying down beside him, as casual as if she had just announced that she’d like to go for ice cream. And why is she using his given name rather than the one he chose for himself and adopted since leaving home?

“What do you mean? Come on, Ariane, it’s been working fine! Where is this coming from?”

“Oh, please - you’re... You. Running around playing music, you haven’t even kept a steady job ever in your life.” She shakes her head, pushing herself to her feet. Jaskier can do little but look up at her, silently begging her not to leave. “This was never going to work, Jaskier. It was fun for a while, and I’ll admit I even hoped it might go somewhere in the future, that maybe if I changed my expectations, I could... But it was foolish. We’re not a good match. So have a good day, Julian. Jaskier. Whatever it is you’re calling yourself these days.”

“Ariane -“

But she’s gone, already turning a corner and disappearing behind the pub. Jaskier lets himself fall back onto the ground, hitting the soft grass with a small thud. One hand moves to run over his face, and it stops at his eyes, covering them for a moment. Were there any warning signs? Should he have seen this coming? He can’t think of anything - they were laughing and having fun just a few moments before. Though maybe that’s all that it ever was for Ariane, just a bit of fun, a couple of months with someone less serious, less ‘parents first choice’ before she got tired of it and decided to end it like she always knew she would.

He’s getting really, really tired of this.

What was it, he wonders, that pushed her to end it now? Was it a plan, did she have it marked on her calendar? Was it something that he said? Was it something he didn’t say? He’s pretty sure that he gave one of his best performances at the pub that night, so that can’t have been it.

A sigh escapes his lips, and he bites back the tears that are burning in his eyes.

He should go home, he thinks to himself. He wanted to get a few a more drinks at the pub, maybe talk to some people about his performance, get some notes, maybe even get another gig booked, but after all this... all he wants is to crawl into his bed. And ice cream. And maybe he could stay there for a century or two. Would that be long enough for him to forget her?

His mind flashes to the weekend they spent at the beach just last month, to her chasing him into the sea, tackling him at the point where the wave crashes into the beach, and the two of them laughing and spurting water. He remembers going for ice cream and playing his guitar for her at the little café, he remembers how she asked the manager to set up a place where he could comfortably sit and play. He remembers a lazy Sunday morning in bed, just talking and cuddling, sun streaming in through window at just the right angle to make everything seem like a movie. He remembers, he remembers how just a few moments ago, he really thought that everything could be perfect.

No, it would take longer than a century or two for him to forget one Ariane of Stael.

He pushes himself off the grass and shaky legs carry him over to the pub. He could really, really go for a drink right around then.

But he crosses the threshold and he sees the chair where Ariane sat to watch him play, and he’s suddenly sliding to the floor, tears streaming freely from his eyes. Maybe, he thinks, he had the right idea when he thought he should probably go home.

*****

It’s a long walk back home.

It’s a long walk, and that is why he drove there. Well, that and the fact that a guitar may not be that heavy when you first pick it up, but after over an hour carrying it over his shoulders, it really started to weight a bit.

Still, he doesn’t drive back. No, he wants some time to clear his head, some time to put his thoughts in order, to try to make some kind of sense of this mess with Ariane. He doesn’t understand it, he doesn’t understand why she left - so many others, he did. People grew bored, the novelty wore off, and they moved on. Sometimes, they just didn’t work together. Others just didn’t see it going anywhere. But Ariane... They were happy together, weren’t they?

It’s a long walk back home, and that’s a good thing.

He thinks. He reminisces. He strings together crazy theories only to tear them down a moment later. And by the time he’s turning into his driveway and walking up the path to his door, he feels about twenty per cent less terrible, which he considers to be a remarkable improvement.

That is, right up until the point a huge body collides with him and sends him tumbling into a lovely little vase he made during a pottery class.

Really, he was fond of that vase.

And bleeding. Yes, he’s pretty sure he’s bleeding. His shoulder is on fire and... oh, come on, that was a nice jacket!

But then a rough hand rolls him and places him on his back, and suddenly he really couldn’t care less about the vase or his jacket. Sweet Melitele, he’s pretty sure he’s going to die.

A sword is just barely grazing his throat, and he doesn’t dare swallow, terrified that any movement might dig it in. His eyes find his attacker, and he has to stop himself from gasping. Yellow eyes glare down at him, and he swears that he’s never seen such contempt directed at him, not even from his family, which is quite a feat. What could he possibly have done to that man? Was it possible he slept with his wife? Husband? He can’t remember anyone mentioning someone in their lives who could wield a sword, but hey, it’s not like that’s something that comes up in conversation, is it?

He raises his hands in surrender, though he’s not even sure why.

The man remains silent for a moment, yellow eyes still staring daggers at him, before he says two simple snarled words, “remove it.”

Jaskier blinks, more confused than ever. “Remove... what?”

The man growls.

Jaskier swallows back the urge to cry. He’s fairly certain that would only get him killed faster, and quite honestly, ridiculous as it may sound, he doesn’t really want to see what new level of contempt the man would hold him in if he saw him break down and cry. As it is, he’s already surprised he didn’t simply melt into a puddle.

“Don’t - don’t get me wrong, I would love to remove what it is that you want removed, really, but I just - I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please.”

He wonders why the man’s grip on the sword has suddenly become so unsteady. After a moment, he realizes that it’s actually him - he’s shaking.

If the other man notices, he doesn’t care. Instead he sighs impatiently, rolling his cat-like eyes. “The spell. Remove the spell.”

A spell? Oh - oh, no, he’s dead, isn’t he?

He’s absolutely, most certainly dead.

“I’d - I’d be happy to, I would. Just one little problem, you see, I - I don’t know how. Don’t know the first thing about magic, me. But maybe - maybe if you talk me through it, I can,” he tries, looking up at the very large, very scary man with pleading eyes.

He doesn’t relent. “Don’t lie to me, mage. You should know a witcher’s medallion will always react to magic.”

Oh, goodness. Oh, no.

He really thinks he’s a mage, doesn’t he? But he’s not, he’s not. He doubts he could make the lights flicker if he had an instruction manual written for a child, he definitely can’t cast spells. He’s not a mage, he doesn’t have an ounce of magic within him. The closest he thinks he could ever come to something like that would be to accidentally speak a spell when writing poetry in Elder.

“Please, please, witcher, I’m not - I’m not a mage. I’m a musician, see?” He points to his guitar, still strapped to his back, and tries not to think about the fact that it’s probably shattered. Priorities, Jaskier, he tells himself. Priorities.

But the witcher doesn’t believe him. He keeps the blade pressed up against his neck, just barely grazing it, and he stares at him unblinking.

Jaskier tries not to think of the stories he grew up with, stories about witchers, that spoke of how sharp a witcher’s blade is.

“I could sing you a song, if you like? Play something for you?” He’s not even sure why he’s offering, except for the fact that he doesn’t know what to say and the tension is slowly killing him. Which is better, he supposes, than the blade digging into his neck. He’s fairly certainly the best sorcerer wouldn’t be able to save him then if they were right there by his side when it happened.

Somehow, that works.

The witcher lifts his blade, and after a moment of hesitation, he offers him his hand to help Jaskier off the floor. Confused, Jaskier takes it.

“You’re really not the mage, huh?” the witcher asks.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Nope, I have all the magical talent of a lamp.”

“Then why does my medallion tremble near you?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Maybe because of my magical singing abilities? I don’t know. Maybe it’s broken. Do you have a warranty on it?”

“Hm,” says the witcher. Jaskier is getting the feeling he’s not a man of many words.

While he dusts himself off, trying to ignore how his hands still tremble, the witcher looks around, frowning. He’s removed his medallion, Jaskier notices, and he’s moving it in a circle, watching it intently. No matter where he turns, he always seems to end up with it pointed straight at Jaskier. There’s suspicion in those yellow eyes, there certainly is, but the sword is back in its sheathe, and for now, that’s progress.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” the witcher finally says, much to Jaskier’s surprise. “And I’m sorry about the vase. But do you think I could ask you a few questions?”

The man is... intriguing, to say the least. Jaskier has a million questions of his own that he would like to ask, and under normal circumstances, he knows he would be swooning. He’d have invited the man in for coffee before he could even consider how crazy that might be. But these are not normal circumstances. Really, he would be happy not to have to see him again, and certainly not so soon - he’s still shaking, his knees can barely hold him up.

His silence seems to be answer enough for the witcher, who nods, already shifting towards the sidewalk. “Right. I’m sorry. I’ll take my leave.”

There’s something in those yellow eyes, something Jaskier can’t quite name. But whatever it is, it has him stepping forward, one hand reaching out to take the witcher’s arm and gently coax him from leaving.

“Would you like to come in for coffee?”

*****

There’s a witcher sitting at his kitchen table. There’s a witcher sitting at his kitchen table, sipping coffee from his grandmother’s least favorite (but still very expensive) china that she’d given him one birthday when she was particularly disappointed in him. There’s a witcher sitting at his kitchen table, sword resting against the counter, just a few minutes after he tried to kill him.

Jaskier is seriously beginning to think he might have a problem.

But for now, he supposes the best he can do is try to make conversation. “So, what did you mean when you asked me to break the spell?”

“A spell has been cast over this town. It’s attracting monsters,” he explains.

Jaskier nods. “Oh, uh - I guess that makes sense, you know, with you being here. Did you pick up a contract? I think our sheriff still issues them. You know, sometimes.”

“No. And no, he doesn’t. I believe he said that ‘there’s nothing a witcher can do that modern technology can’t’.”

“Oh, that’s because the bruxa incident hadn’t happened yet.”

“That’s the incident I’m referring to.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Could’ve used a witcher then, that’s for sure. You know, I didn’t think there were any witchers left. But hey, if you’re not here on a contract, then what brings you to our lovely town?”

There’s a long moment of silence, and Jaskier is just about to not so subtly change the subject when the witcher answers, his voice quiet. “I live here.”

“Oh, really?” It’s hard to imagine the witcher living in that small town - it’s an everyone knows everyone kind of place, and his quiet, brooding demeanor makes a stark contrast against the very social setting. He can’t imagine that the witcher would enjoy being pulled into town traditions, having people knock on his door to introduce themselves - oh... “We’re not neighbors, are we? Because I swear, I keep meaning to make introductions, but there’s always something going on and I keep putting it off and by now, really, I just avoid them.”

Something akin to amusement flashes across the witcher’s eyes for a moment. “No, we’re not.”

“Oh, good, that would’ve been awkward. So, what was it that you wanted to ask me?” As he speaks, Jaskier settles on the chair across from the witcher, a mug of hot chocolate in his hands.

“Do you know of any sorcerers in this town?” the witcher asks.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Can’t say that I do, no. There’s some rumors about that Christelle girl down on Griffin street, her garden is always immaculate, but I say she just likes gardening. Her grandmother was a herbalist, you see? She probably knows all the tricks of the trade.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier sips his hot chocolate, deciding to wait and see whether the witcher would say anything else before jumping in and speaking himself. It takes a long minute, but finally, the other man breaks the silence.

“Do you know of anyone in town who may have any powerful enemies?”

This time, Jaskier takes a moment to think before shaking his head yet again. “Nah, no one. Not that I know of, anyway. I guess people can have totally separate lives we know nothing about, huh?” Like himself, he thinks, and his own past. To the town, he’s not Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove. No, he’s just Jaskier. If anyone has even noticed that he shouldn’t be able to afford some of the things that he has, no one has mentioned anything.

“Why would anyone be drawing monsters here?” the witcher mutters under his breath, brows furrowing.

Jaskier can do little but shrug. “I don’t know. Someone trying to prove a point, maybe? I mean, you said it yourself, the sheriff isn’t exactly welcoming the help of witchers. Maybe someone wanted to prove him wrong.”

Silence falls upon them again, the witcher seeming to be considering his words, though Jaskier can’t say that he looks especially convinced. He sips his hot chocolate for a few moments, then he sits up a little, leaning forward on the table. “Can I ask you something?” The witcher makes a small grunt, and Jaskier decides to take that as a yes. “You said they’re drawing monsters here. But... I haven’t seen any. No one I’ve talked to has mentioned anything like that, either. And there’s been nothing on the news. So where are they?”

There’s a pause before the witcher speaks, his tone seeming a little hesitant. “The first one showed up on my ranch about a week ago. I didn’t think much of it - there are still some of them roaming around, and they’re attracted to livestock. But the next night, a wraith showed up outside the stables. Too much of a coincidence. I went into town, trying to see if it was focused on my ranch, but it wasn’t. There were ghouls digging through trash cans behind a restaurant just a few blocks away from here. Endregas in the park. If no one’s seen anything, it’s sheer luck. Maybe I’ve been quick enough until now, but their numbers are climbing. I’m only one witcher.”

Jaskier nods. He hasn’t seen anything strange, he really hasn’t, but then again, up until that night he’s been completely distracted by one Ariane of Stael. He knows himself, he knows how hard he falls for people - the world could have ended around him during that weekend at the beach, and he’d have been none the wiser.

“And why do you think it’s a spell?” Jaskier asks. “Maybe it’s just... a touch of bad luck.”

“Bringing all these creatures to one single small town? Seems unlikely,” the witcher argues. “A spell is the only thing I can imagine might draw all these different species here.”

Jaskier considers it for a moment, then he nods. “I guess it makes sense. Can’t imagine why you’d think I’m a mage, though.”

“I told you, my medallion reacted to you.”

“Do you tackle anyone who gets your medallion going? Seems like a dangerous policy, if you ask me, especially since that thing is obviously broken.”

The witcher eyes him intensively, and Jaskier cocks his head at him, curious. What is he thinking? Why does he keep looking at him like that, as though he wishes he could see through him? Jaskier has always been an open book - if there’s anything he wants to know, all he has to do is ask.

“Only when I’m looking for a powerful mage and that person is the first in days to get a reaction from it. Though I suppose it was somewhat brash. I’ve already apologized.”

“Maybe I’ll even accept it if you apologize to my poor little guitar, too,” Jaskier jokes. At the witcher’s frown, however, he opens up his guitar case to reveal the cracked instrument, though he himself averts his eyes, not wanting to see the cruel fate that had befallen his dear guitar. It was a gift from the countess, she gave it him the very day they started dating, and... Well, maybe it’s a fitting end for it, being destroyed the very same day as his heart.

The witcher winces almost imperceptibly, and Jaskier closes the case once again.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Jaskier sighs and shrugs. “Guitars will come and guitars will go, I guess. I think I still have my old one around here somewhere. It’s not as good, but it’ll do for now.”

They grow silent once again. The witcher finishes his coffee, Jaskier his hot chocolate, and they sit quietly for another long minute. It’s not unpleasant, it’s not even awkward, but after a while, Jaskier begins to wonder whether he should be saying something. He’s not used to being quiet for this long. So he’s about to offer the witcher another cup of coffee when he’s interrupted, the other man standing up from his chair and collecting his sword from where it leant in its sheathe against the counter.

“I should go. I’ve already imposed too long,” the witcher says, slinging the sword over his back in one fluid motion.

Jaskier is impressed.

“Oh, uh - no, it’s fine. Do you want another cup of coffee? Or maybe something to eat? I’m sure I could fix up something.”

The witcher shakes his head. “I should get back to Roach. Be careful in these streets for now, you never know what you might run into.”

“Roach?” Jaskier asks. “Who or... what is Roach?”

But if the witcher hears his question - and he must, Jaskier thinks, because witchers were known for having excellent hearing - he chooses not to answer. He’s out the door before Jaskier knows it, and he finds himself trailing after him up to the sidewalk, watching as he walks down the street and starts to disappear into the night.

“Hey, I never got your name!” he calls after the witcher.

He doesn’t get an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... that was me experimenting with writing in the present tense. I hope it’s not as much of a disaster as my brain keeps telling me it is.
> 
> There’s still a lot more to come, I’ve got a fair chunk of it plotted already, and I hope you all like the concept! I’d be super happy to hear what you’re all thinking of it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation develops, Jaskier lists beverages, and he thinks of a good line for his headstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I so 100% planned on working on my other fic, but I sat down to write one scene for this and I just kept coming back to it, so there you go, a new update!
> 
> The summary I think is on version three now? So don’t mind that, I just keep thinking it’s really not very good xD
> 
> Thank you all so much for all the kudos/bookmarks/comments! They always make my day!

The next night, he sees them.

It starts with a small shape wandering through his tiny backyard. He goes to the window to see what it is, worried that one of the neighbor’s kids might have snuck in, maybe a stray dog. It’s shaped somewhat like a child, short, though with strangely long limbs. What gives it away, though, is how it moves - quickly, but a little lankly, with movements that are not quite human.

And then comes another one.

And another one.

And another.

Jaskier stumbles back and crashes into his couch, cueing all... eight? No, ten. Cueing all ten creatures to stare at him, red eyes gazing into the house with unsettling determination.

And then it starts.

They claw at the door, at the windows, they push in with what he has to guess is all their strength given the horrible noises he hears, noises that tell him the structural integrity of his house is being threatened. They’re going to get in, he thinks as small fingers manage to turn the knob on the door. It’s locked, thankfully. But it throws its body against the door, and Jaskier flinches. It’s not going to hold out much longer.

They’re going to get in, and they’re going to kill him.

One of them bangs on the glass, and Jaskier says a small prayer of thank you to the gods for the fact that they’re short and the window is high. He’s fairly certain that this simple fact is the only reason why he’s still alive.

He considers, briefly, running to his car, which he drove back from the pub earlier. It’s sitting in his driveway just a few feet away from the door, but those little beings are fast. Maybe he could make it, but what if he drops the keys? What if they can break through the glass of the car? No, he’s staying inside. He’s staying inside and - oh, maybe he can call someone. Call someone, get help, yes. He can do that.

So he picks up the phone, and calls emergency services.

By the time they arrive, the little beings - nekkers, according a quick search on the internet - are gone, and he’s a crumpled pile of relief shaking next to the couch. He points them in the right direction and they take off. He doesn’t hear from them again.

*****

People are talking about it the next day.

Aside from the nekkers, there were apparently also a few more ghouls, a griffin, and even a couple of harpies. Jaskier is somewhat skeptical of some of the stories, but others... Well, at least a few of them have to be true. And it’s worrisome, it’s very worrisome.

He goes back home late in the afternoon, carrying enough groceries to keep him fed for a good few weeks - he hopes it won’t come to that, but he wants to be prepared. He notices them when he’s packing, an unfamiliar shape reflected in the microwave. Quiet as he can, he calls emergency again.

They don’t pick up. He’s put on hold.

His knees are trembling now, and he’s not sure why. He’s terrified, he knows that, but of what? He’s safe inside, for now. He’s safe, the nekkers don’t know he’s there. But something draws him to the opposite side of the house, to the window that faces the street, and his knees buckle when he gazes outside. There’s a basilisk on the street, heavy paws cracking the concrete as it moves forward. Its heavy wings have demolished the upper floor of many houses, and Jaskier finds himself crawling to stand under a doorway. Something in the back of his mind tells him he’ll be safe there.

*****

He buys the newspaper the next day.

He can’t remember the last time he bought a newspaper, probably because he never did. Every page is filled with accounts of the previous days, with other sections having been apparently cancelled for the time being. He skips over them, going straight to the reason he bought the newspaper in the first place. The obituary takes up a whole page of the paper, and Jaskier lets out a strangled cry.

******

He gets an email from his parents.

They’re telling him about a cyclops who trampled through town the previous day. They say they’ve received news from Ariane, who just barely managed to escape a group of harpies. He almost thinks they’re going to ask about him, but it dissolves into demands that he make his way home at once, claiming that they need to show unity during these difficult times.

He throws his phone carelessly on the couch.

In the TV, the news anchor is telling people that Novigrad has closed its gates. The images shift from aerial shots of Novigrad to Cintran authorities ushering people behind the heavy walls of the ancient keep. They’ll be closing their gates soon, too, then. Jaskier lets out a sigh.

It won’t help. He’s read enough over the past few days to know that these measures are a last-ditch effort of protection at best and a smokescreen to appease the public at worst. Sure, the walls might keep out ghouls and nekkers, but they won’t do anything against harpies and basilisks, fiends and griffins. They’re not safe within the keep. Safer, maybe, but not safe.

The witcher was wrong.

That became apparent one day after the basilisk, approximately one week earlier. There’s no spell, only monsters.

The news anchor goes on to announce that the Lodge has been reconvened for the first time in decades. A video plays, displaying a series of sorceresses walking into what Jaskier can’t help but think looks strangely like the remains of Aretuza. Their names are displayed below, and he catches a few of them. Keira Metz, Triss Merigold, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Sabrina Glevissig, Philippa Eihart.

The Lodge was dissolved much before his birth, but Jaskier still wonders why they’re announcing this meeting when the whole organization was always meant to be a secret.

Right, desperate times.

He lets out a sigh.

*****

There’s extra guards roaming the streets now. Jaskier passes at least three groups on his way to the grocery store a few streets down. The shelves aren’t as well stocked, but it’s a huge improvement on a couple of days ago, when it looked like they might run out of food completely. The armored trucks must have had better luck than the normal delivery trucks, then.

Then cashier keeps glancing over her shoulder at the large storefront window, boarded up from when the basilisk broke it, and he frowns in sympathy. It must have been her shift from the haunted look in her eyes. She was lucky, though - the glass shattered and nothing more. A lot of people were killed by falling debris from wrecked buildings, and a few others were eaten or crushed by the beast.

She scans his purchases wordlessly, takes his payment, and nearly shoves his purchases into his arms. He doesn’t complain, he doesn’t try to make conversation - he takes his things and he leaves.

Goodness, he almost longs for that day at the pub, the day that Ariane left him. At least things were still normal back then. There were no monsters other than the odd one spotted here and there, his neighbors were all still alive, and people chatted when they went out into the street, they went shopping, they ate out. A day at the beach didn’t end with someone being carried off by an ekhidna, or drowned by a siren.

He’s making his way down the street and back to his house when he spots it.

There’s something in the distance.

Something huge.

Something...

Barreling right at him.

Jaskier jumps, though he allows himself to feel some relief when he realizes that there are two patrols right next to him. They move to intercept the beast while Jaskier glances around, looking for some place to hide, and -

One of the patrolmen crashes right into him. Jaskier falls to the ground, but his panic is strong enough that he’s pushing the man off him right away, scrambling to his feet and reaching out to help the other back to his feet. Except... there’s a huge stain of blood spreading over the man’s uniform. Before he can think better of it, Jaskier is down on his knees, moving to push the black jacket, adorned with red and gold for Aedirn, off the man’s torso to allow him a clearer view.

Right in the middle of his belly, there’s a huge, gaping hole.

Jaskier moves to cover his mouth in shock, fingers now coated in blood. And that’s when he feels the ground vibrate beneath him. He turns around to see the beast only a few feet away from him, blood dripping off an antler onto its matted fur. Jaskier glances around, looking for the other patrol people, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

He swallows.

There’s no point in running, he knows this instinctively. He’d never make it. At best, he’d be whisked off his feet by one those huge antlers and never know what hit him. There’s no point in running, and he can’t fight. So what’s left? Sitting there in terror? There’s no point in that, either. It won’t make him live any longer, it’ll just prolong his fear.

He stands up. He’s not sure why, but he does.

The beast snarls. He thinks it’s probably a fiend. Great, his days upon days of research paid off, he’ll get to die knowing he probably correctly identified the creature that killed him. Maybe he can have that engraved on his tombstone. Then again, there’s no one around for him to pass that on to - he could text his parents, but having them be the last people he spoke to before his death just seems depressing.

The fiend is close now. It’s studying him with mild curiosity, but he’s fairly certain that won’t save him from its disturbingly sharp antlers.

It moves to attack. Jaskier wants to close his eyes, but he can’t.

Suddenly, his hands are on his ears, protecting them from the sound of a loud honk right behind him. The fiend lets out a horrible shriek, standing on its hind quarters and pawing at the ground in a strangely horse-like motion. The noise doesn’t relent for a long minute, and when it does, there’s someone rushing towards it, a glint of silver in the air beside him. A head of white hair, armor, silver - it’s the witcher.

Jaskier lets out a relieved laughter.

But it’s not quite over yet.

The witcher gets a good few hits in, but the fiend recovers, and those antlers and paws begin to brush far too close for comfort. Jaskier starts to back away involuntarily, unsure as to what to do.

“Hit the horn!” the witcher yells out, just barely managing to roll away from a swipe of the fiend’s paw that would likely have easily sent him crashing into the bookstore right beside them.

Jaskier blinks, glancing back at the car behind him.

“Do it!” the witcher urges him.

It’s a simple enough task, but it’s not easy to extricate himself from the spot. Once he does, however, he moves in such a rush that it’s a wonder he doesn’t trip over his own feet, all but lunging for the door of the car and leaning onto the horn with both hands. A loud honk fills the air, and Jaskier glances back at the witcher and the fiend just in time to watch the former roll away from a heavy paw.

It’s on its back legs now, torso raised, belly exposed.

The witcher lunges for it.

Silver sword digs into soft flesh, and the rest... Well, Jaskier doesn’t watch it, eyes then focusing intently on the dashboard of the car. It’s an older model, with far fewer buttons than some of the cars he’s seen, but he still eyes them like they’re the most interesting and complex thing that he’s ever seen in his life.

He does a good enough job of focusing on the car that when a hand moves to rest on his shoulder, he yelps and jumps back, his head hitting the ceiling of the car with a thud.

“I should have announced myself,” the witcher remarks, frowning slightly.

Jaskier shakes his head, rubbing the spot that throbbed slightly. “No, no, I just... I guess I got distracted.”

“You shouldn’t be out here. I told you to be careful.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t just stay inside forever, right? Besides, there’s all these people patrolling the streets now. King’s orders, it seems. Brand new branch of... something. Who can keep up these days.” He shakes his head.

It’s the witcher’s turn to shake his head. “All the king’s men couldn’t take down a fiend, not without proper training. They’re resilient beasts, could kill a witcher easily enough.”

It could, couldn’t it? Jaskier frowns, remembering all the close brushes he witnessed between the witcher and the fiend. He could have died. “Hey, uh - thank you,” Jaskier finds himself saying, “I’d be dead right now if it weren’t for you. So... yeah. Thanks.”

The witcher smiles. It’s discreet, just a small twitch of the corner of his lips, eyes brightening, but it’s there. Jaskier smiles, too.

“Oh, I’m Jaskier, by the way. We didn’t get to introductions last time.”

There’s a pause, and Jaskier worries that maybe he’s overstepped somehow, but the witcher answers. “I’m Geralt. Geralt of Rivia.”

The smile lingers on Jaskier’s lips for a moment, then he turns and his eyes find the body still laying on the floor a mere few feet away from them. The smile quickly vanishes. For a moment there, he almost forgot that someone did die from the fiend attack. “Well, Geralt, do you know what to do about that poor man?” he asks, if only because his mind seems to have come to a halt on the subject.

“He’s dead,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier has to bite back the urge to point out that that much is painfully obvious. “Leave him.”

“What?” Jaskier raises his eyebrows in shock, then he shakes his head vehemently. “No, no, no, we’re not - we can’t just leave him here, Geralt! We have to... We have to call someone.”

“Someone will find him soon enough,” Geralt argues.

“What if - what if it’s a child, or... Or the poor guy’s mother? He deserves better, his family deserves better.” Once again, Jaskier shakes his head.

Geralt lets out a sigh. “Fine. Wait here.”

“Where are you going?” Jaskier asks as the witcher begins to walk away, moving past the body of the fiend without so much as a glance towards it. Jaskier wonders whether he’ll ever get to that point of indifference. “Geralt, don’t leave me!”

The witcher stops and turns around, a mix of annoyance and something else Jaskier can’t quite name in his eyes. “I’ll be back soon,” he promises.

With a sigh and some skepticism, Jaskier leans against the car and he waits.

*****

It takes somewhere around twenty minutes for the witcher to return, but to Jaskier, it feels like an eternity. Within the first five minutes, he has to give up and sit down on the hood of the car, his knees finally giving in now that he has time to process what just happened. But sitting on the hood of the car has him right in front of the body, and Jaskier can’t look at it, but he also can’t look away.

Did he have a family? It occurs to Jaskier that if he died, his own family would probably just take that as a sign that they needed to find a new heir. They might even be pleased to have an excuse to divorce themselves of him. But most families aren’t like that, he learned that over the years since leaving home. That guy probably had a family that will miss him. Parents, guardians, siblings, cousins, friends.

He’ll write a song for him, Jaskier decides. A song fit for someone who died trying to protect others. And maybe he’ll write one for the witcher, too - a song about their meeting, a song about him saving Jaskier’s life. With a few details tweaked, he thinks it has the makings of a great story.

Maybe he’ll find the man’s family, make sure they know what happened to him. Maybe he’ll sing them the song he’ll write. He wonders if they’d like that. He hopes so, it’s all he can really do.

Geralt finally appears, coming around the body of the fiend. He strides past it confidently, but the officers following him give it a wide berth, their eyes fixed on the carcass. Jaskier realizes he’s hardly paid it any mind since he sat down on the hood of the car, and he has to bite back a small chuckle. It wasn’t even half an hour ago that he was terrified of it. Then again, he trusts that if that thing posed any harm to him dead, Geralt would have said something.

The officers interview Jaskier, and they ask Geralt a few questions. The witcher does everything he can to cut the proceedings short, and for once, Jaskier is glad for his taciturn ways. He kind of wants the whole thing to be over.

By the time everything is done, the body has been taken away, and they’re left alone with the giant carcass of the fiend, which Jaskier overheard someone say would have to be transported in some special vehicle.

“They usually avoid humans,” the witcher says, snapping Jaskier’s attention back to him.

He raises an eyebrow at Geralt, confused.

“Fiends,” Geralt explains. “They prefer remote places, feed on the wildlife. Wouldn’t expect to see one right in the middle of a town. But then again, I wouldn’t expect most of what I’ve been seeing the past few days.”

Jaskier nods, letting out a sigh. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s happening, Geralt. You were wrong, you know? It’s not just this town, I don’t think there’s a spell at all. It’s the whole Continent. They’re even reconvening the Lodge.”

That gets Geralt’s attention, Jaskier sees it immediately. It’s something in those eyes - his slit pupils dilate, and something sparks behind them. “The Lodge? Really?”

“Yeah. Not that I think it’ll end in anything, all the sorceresses in the world couldn’t stop whatever’s happening now,” Jaskier points out.

Geralt nods. “Maybe. But they can come up with a plan.”

“I sure hope so, I’m not sure how long we can keep on going like this. Just that basilisk... And it wasn’t even trying to eat anyone most of the time, it just collapsed half the second floors in the street. Geralt - “

Before he can finish the sentence, however, Geralt interrupts him, “we should get you home. Are those groceries yours?”

There’s a bag of spilled groceries on the floor, and Jaskier suddenly realizes that yes, it is his. Right, he was walking home from the grocery store when this happened, wasn’t he? He’d completely forgotten.

“Oh, right, yes,” he says as he kneels down to collect them. Geralt crouches next to him and begins to help.

The witcher walks him home. It’s certainly not something that Jaskier had expected, but it’s very much appreciated - he’s fairly certain that if something jumped out at him, throwing a can of mac and cheese at it would do very little to save his life, but having a witcher by his side significantly increased the odds. Plus, while Geralt’s penchant for answering things with silence or a grunt had unnerved him before, now it’s welcome, even - he tells him about the town as they walk, pointing out places of notice, and Geralt just answers with the occasional ‘hm’. Granted, he does also live there, apparently, but he doesn’t seem to leave his ranch very often. Jaskier would know about him if he did, very little escapes being gossiped about around those parts, and Jaskier unabashedly loves gossip. It’s wonderful inspiration.

They arrive at Jaskier’s place and he happily invites Geralt in, leading him to the kitchen.

The smile is gone from his lips the moment he has his back turned to the witcher, and his knees tremble once again when he finds himself alone in the kitchen. His fingers are still covered in blood, and looking at them makes him queasy. He sets his half of the groceries down on the counter clumsily, then he quickly makes a beeline for the sink and pours warm water over his blood-coated fingers, watching the water slowly wash the blood away. It takes a while, but eventually he manages to scrub them clean, and he tells himself he feels better. He tells himself everything is fine, he tells himself he’s stopped shaking, and finally, he tells himself he needs to get back to Geralt.

The latter, at least, he believes.

He finds Geralt in the living room, groceries still in the paper bag he’s hugging to his chest, looking fixedly at the window that faces his backyard. Jaskier moves to stand by his side. “Something wrong with the window?” he asks after a moment, tilting his head as if that could reveal something he couldn’t see before. It doesn’t.

“There’s nekkers in your backyard,” Geralt states.

Jaskier shrugs. “Yeah, they moved in about - oof, just a day after you rudely tackled me right at my front door. I’ve named them, see? There’s Rodlim over there, and Ilim, and - oh, that one’s Falnar, and Igne, and behind her, that’s Ade.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. “You named the nekkers?”

Once again, Jaskier shrugs. “What was I supposed to do? They live there now. At least they haven’t managed to get in just yet. Kinda gave up after a few hours. We just... coexist now. As long as I keep the doors and windows shut, that should be fine.”

“I could take care of that for you, if you’d like,” Geralt offers.

A while ago, Jaskier wouldn’t have hesitated to say yes. Now, though... He’s not exactly fond of the nekkers. They’re loud, they’d kill him if they had the chance, and there’s really nothing cute about them like you might see on a wolf or a bear, who could both kill him just as easily. But they’ve lived there for a while now, he’s watched them, he’s named them, and it just feels wrong to tell the witcher to go and kill them.

Geralt seems to have caught onto his train of thought, and he doesn’t need to say a word for him to interject. “You understand that if they ever get out of your backyard, they will kill someone, and if they don’t, they’ll starve? Nekkers burrow, Jaskier. It’s only a matter of time before they find soft ground where they can emerge.”

Jaskier swallows. “Can’t we relocate them?”

Geralt shakes his head. “They don’t have a natural habitat here. They’ll cause damage anywhere we place them.”

He thinks of classes many years ago in school, when he was taught about the Conjunction of Spheres and the chaos that ensued, invasive species taking over a world where they had not evolved, where they had no natural predators. Monsters, humans - yeah, Geralt is probably right. They need to do something about the nekkers, the neighbors have children and pets, and there’s nowhere they can send monsters like they would send snakes or other potentially dangerous creature that didn’t belong in his backyard.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Okay. But not right now. Come on, come in for a cup of coffee or something. There’s no need to be all work all the time. How have you been over the past few weeks?”

“Busy,” Geralt answers.

Jaskier isn’t deterred by his one-word answer. “Lots of monsters on your property? You said you own a ranch, right?”

“Yes.”

He pours the witcher some coffee and brings out some sugar and milk. Geralt pays little attention to either. “Personally, I’ve been finding it very hard to book gigs with all that’s been going on. And then there’s the issue that outside is suddenly very dangerous, so I probably don’t want to be there. But inside has been getting very old very quickly.”

“I’m sorry the sudden surge in the monster population that has claimed many lives has inconvenienced you.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt, I did ask you how you’ve been, but you insist on giving me one word answers. You’re going to have to work with me here. Anyway, I’m thinking of writing songs about this whole... thing. Maybe it’ll be the start of a new genre.”

That catches the witcher’s attention. “You want to write music about this?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Sure, why not? Monsters attacking, and then in comes the brave witcher, slaying the beast and saving the people. It’s perfect, it’s got everything - adventure, heroics...”

There’s something on Geralt’s face that Jaskier can’t quite figure out. Confusion, maybe. Mistrust. He’s really not quite sure, and he wishes the witcher would just speak, tell him what’s on his mind, but even knowing him for as little time as he has, Jaskier has already figured out that he probably won’t get anywhere with that.

Eventually, Geralt turns to him and asks, “Jaskier, why did you truly invite me here?”

Jaskier blinks, not quite knowing what to make of that question. “For... coffee? I mean, I’ve got other beverages if you want. Juice. Soda. Water. Milk. Wine. I’m just listing beverages.”

“Hm.”

Goodness, Geralt really needs to learn other words. Is ‘hm’ even a word?

Jaskier sighs, settling down on a chair in front of the witcher and leaning forward so that his weight is supported by his arms folded over the table. “Look, it’s been a really, really long day, Geralt. I was nearly killed by a fiend, I watched a man die, and - can you please, by all the gods, just tell me what’s going on inside your head?”

There’s a silence.

Really, what does Geralt need to think so carefully about? Jaskier is pretty sure that he hasn’t thought that much about even the biggest decisions in his life. Actually, that would explain a lot.

“What were you hoping to get out of this?”

Jaskier lets out a loud groan - that is not an answer, has he noticed that? - and runs his hands over his face. “I don’t know, Geralt. Must we really analyze every aspect of this? I was hoping... I was hoping you’d come in, sit down, have some coffee or whatever you’re in the mood for, and we’d talk.”

“Hm.”

It’s decided, then - tomorrow he’ll go out and he’ll buy Geralt a dictionary, hand-deliver it to make sure he receives it.

But he doesn’t push, because he’s tired and Geralt is the least cooperative conversationalist he’s ever met. Whatever it is that’s going on inside his head, he can come out and say it or figure it out himself, Jaskier is done extracting it from him.

“So, do you want more coffee? Oh, you’ve hardly touched yours! Do you want something else? Or maybe some food? I’ve got - oof, just shy of nothing, but I can make us something. Or perhaps you’d like to listen to a song? I’ve been playing around with some lyrics since we started heading home. Now, mind you, it’s a work in progress, so be easy on your critique.”

And so they talk. Well, mostly Jaskier talks, but Geralt listens, and Jaskier knows he’s listening because his hms change cadence, and his lips quirk up at a few jokes, his eyes shift with the mood. Geralt tells him a little about the ranch, Jaskier cooks him dinner. Over dessert, they discuss the meeting of the Lodge. Afterwards, Jaskier finally convinces Geralt to let him play the song he’s been silently composing in his head, and although Geralt’s feedback is sparse, Jaskier smiles because he’s pretty sure the witcher likes it.

Toss a Coin to Your Witcher is going to be a hit, just you wait for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad that Yen has hardly appeared until now but I promise that she‘ll do more than just show up on TV the one time, just wait for it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier experiences the famous ‘calm before the storm’. And the storm, too. Featuring his penchant for funny contact names, pjs and cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter completely got away from me, so... have a 5K chapter a little bit late xD
> 
> Honestly I planned on updating my other fic first (and I do have the first half of the next chapter written up for those who might be waiting on it!) but that requires a bit more planning and I just kept coming back to this one. Anyway, this is version 2, I had something that went pretty differently, but I think this works much better. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> And once again, thank you for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks, they’re always a joy to see or read!

It’s become all but impossible to book a gig - he did once manage to speak to a club manager who was desperate to bring in more people and willing to put him in his best timeslot, but he backed out once more than half the staff called in sick. Rumors of a grave hag prowling around nearby, the guy explained. Jaskier decided against against pointing out that he might be no expert, but he’s still pretty sure that grave hags stick to prowling around graves.

With that in mind, Jaskier chooses instead to post his newest song online, and Toss a Coin to Your Witcher becomes an overnight sensation. Whether it’s because people need a distraction or because it’s actually that good Jaskier isn’t sure, but he’s happy all the same just watching the numbers go up and up - followers, likes, views, they’re all suddenly spinning quickly.

He writes another song, Ode to the Unseen, in honor of the man who died trying to fight the fiend, whose sacrifice went unrecognized when the incident got to the newspapers the next day. Egin, he finds was the man’s name. His sister sees the video online, she recognizes her brother’s name and his story, and she tells her parents, who reach out to Jaskier. The conversation is bittersweet, and Jaskier walks away feeling more guilt than ever, but he’s happy to know that at least Egin’s sacrifice doesn’t go unrecognized.

Overall, things are good.

His backyard, freshly nekker-free, gets more use than ever now that actually going out is something he thinks twice about. Ariane calls him, and he’s very proud of himself when he picks up only to have the satisfaction of hanging up on her. He wants her out of his life, out of his mind. He knows it’s not that that simple, and he still catches himself thinking about her, but he tries. She broke his heart into hundreds of little pieces, and yet he knows he’d take her back in a heartbeat if she offered. That’s one of the many reasons he tells himself to stay away.

He still has nightmares about the fiend, about the basilisk, and on occasion even about the nekkers. He wakes in cold sweat, and it takes a good hour or two strumming on his guitar and singing softly to make the shaking stop completely. But they grow steadily less and less frequent, and it becomes easier and easier for him to go back to sleep once he wakes from a nightmare.

Overall, things are good.

Which is why he’s not at all surprised when, as he opens his laptop to find that Toss a Coin is trending and he feels a level of excitement he truly doesn’t know how to handle, his phone rings and the caller ID reads ‘Nope’ - his not so subtle contact name for his mother. It’s very handy for deterring possible moments of nostalgia where he might be tempted to actually pick up the phone and attempt to have a conversation with her, reminding him effectively of the conversation that had him change her contact name in the first place.

He mutes the phone and lets it ring, making his way downstairs.

The phone rings again. He sighs, reaches for it in his pocket, lets his finger hover near the answering button, then hastily declines it.

He gets himself a chocolate croissant and pops it into the oven.

The phone rings again, the caller ID now reading ‘Don’t Even Think About It’. He drops the phone so abruptly that he’s lucky it lands on a barstool rather than the floor.

His father hasn’t called him in... years, at least. Any communication that happens between the two of them is through his mother, and even then it’s sparse at best. Maybe he should answer, maybe this is important.

His heart is hammering.

The call has gone to voicemail and his father has hung up, but he could call him back, maybe. Or his mom, that’s significantly less terrifying. Hands shaking, he picks up the phone. All he has to do, he tells himself, is open up his recent calls and tap his mother’s contact. It’s not hard, just two little taps. It’s easier than the simplest chord on his guitar.

‘Nope’ flashes on his screen once again, and he taps the green answer button, a shaky hand bringing the phone up to his ear.

“Julian, about time! I’ve called twice already, you know that? And your father, he even called you! Said he wouldn’t speak to you, mind you, but he called you!” His mother’s voice fills his head, and he gently eases himself to the floor next to the counter island. Conversations with his mother, he’s long since found, are better had sitting down until the adrenaline kicks in at full force.

“Hi, mom,” he greets, letting out an inaudible sigh.

“Now, we really need to discuss you coming back home. I’ve seen that ridiculous name you’ve picked out for yourself - what is it, a color or something?”

“Jaskier, mother, and it means buttercup.”

Breathe in, breathe out. Just get through the conversation and hang up the moment that’s possible without eliciting a number of further phone calls where she proceeds to chastise him for hanging up in the first phone call, and every further phone call where he inevitably loses his patience and hangs up in lieu of saying a few choice words to her.

“Buttercup.” She scoffs.

Jaskier grits his teeth.

“Well, anyway, I’ve seen that name floating around, something about throwing money at someone, a witcher or something. I trust that won’t make your travel arrangements any more complicated. Because I really do need to confirm the date, darling.”

“No, mother, it won’t, because I’m not going. I really thought my complete silence was enough to get the message across.”

Calm your temper, Jaskier, he tells himself. Calm your temper or this will last a lot longer than you want it to.

“That’s ridiculous! You need to come home, Julian, you’re the viscount!”

“It’s just a title, an accident of birth,” he argues, shaking his head at her. “I don’t have to go, and I’m letting you know now that I’m not. I’m not going. And it’s Toss a Coin to Your Witcher. Or Toss a Coin, people are abbreviating.”

“Is that what this is, that silly music of yours? Because I tolerate it, but if it’s going to interfere with your family duties, then -“

He stands up.

There’s a shadow on the window, something - good grief, it’s huge.

“Julian? Have you even listened to a word I’ve said?”

“Mom, I think I’m going to have to call you back,” he says vaguely, his attention mostly focused on the beast on the other side of his house, whatever is left over working tirelessly on making sure he doesn’t panic.

His heart isn’t racing, he notes. In fact, he’s not sure it’s beating at all.

“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Julian, not again.”

“Mom... I think there’s a monster outside.” His voice feels... disconnected from him. As he speaks, he’s hardly even aware of the words coming out of his mouth, much less their forming in his head or his decision to speak them.

“Oh, please,” comes the answer, “there’s monsters everywhere now.”

He shakes his head. “No, not like this. It’s - it’s huge.”

There’s a shift in his mother’s voice, the arrogance and entitlement giving way to concern. It’s nice, he remarks with a strange detachment from the situation. It’s rare that she’ll show that she genuinely cares, but when she does it always makes him feel... loved. It’s a nice feeling. He wishes she did it more often.

“Well, don’t get close to it! Call someone - I’ll call someone. And your father - oh, he knows someone on the Aerdin Disaster Council, I’m sure he can get the situation sorted in no time. Just give me a moment -“

It’s not helping. She’s not helping.

Of course she isn’t, some small part of him says, she never does. She thinks she’s helping, she mobilizes more people than the population of his town, but in the end, it doesn’t help. Most of the time, anyway. And now... Now it won’t help. Perhaps it could, if he had more time, but he doesn’t. The beast is huge and it’s right outside and Jaskier has the unsettling feeling that it’s staring right at him.

He needs to get closer. He needs to draw the curtains so he can see.

“Mom, I have to go,” he all but whispers.

“Julian, please... be careful.”

And with that, he hangs up, letting the phone fall onto the nearby armchair. He keeps walking towards the window, heart drumming in his chest, stomach squeezing into knots. Every step feels like an eternity.

But then he’s there, his fingers loosely grasping the thin fabric of his curtains, and he’s carefully pulling them open, as if he peeled them away with enough care, the figure they’d reveal would be harmless and he could go back to his chocolate croissant in peace.

And for a moment, he thinks it might have worked.

It’s not a huge beast that stands at his window, but rather a few people with their backs turned, eyes trained on something that’s going on in the street. Maybe it’s some sort of performance art, he thinks to himself, or even a crash of some sort - he’ll take anything over a monster at this point, and he’s fairly sure everyone would agree.

But as he opens his door to check, he sees that it’s nothing quite that simple, even if it’s not a monster, either.

There’s someone in a heated discussion with the mayor, a few of the monster patrollers hanging a little too close to them for comfort. Broad shoulders, white hair, armor, a sword strapped to his back - it’s the witcher, Geralt. And the patrols are closing in, slowly, as if they think that if they’re careful enough he won’t notice it. Jaskier is pretty sure he does.

He takes a few steps closer, completely forgetting the fact that he’s still in his pajamas, lacy lilac sleeveless top with matching silk shorts, bare feet padding down the path from his door to the sidewalk. No one’s eyes are on him, though, all the attention directed towards the witcher and the mayor, and the slowly approaching patrol whose purpose in that situation alarms Jaskier to no end. As he draws closer, he begins to be able to hear what’s being said, and he stops at a comfortable distance to try and catch himself up on the situation.

“Your people are dying. I’ve seen a fiend impale one of your patrolmen, I’ve watched ghouls decimate a whole unit, and a wraith nearly finished off a patrolwoman. They’re not helping, you need professionals, and you need to train them, prepare them. You’re sending them off to their deaths with the promise that they’re helping to protect people but they’re just serving as fodder between the people and the monsters,” the witcher argues, his tone carefully patient.

The mayor shakes his head. “I’ve told you already, witcher, we’re handling the situation. And I assure you, our patrols are very well trained. Now please, leave before I’m forced to remove you from here myself.”

“Just let me take care of it. I won’t even ask for payment.”

“Yanaar, escort the witcher away, please,” asks the mayor.

A woman, presumably Yanaar, steps forward and places a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. Jaskier thinks she’s probably trying to guide him away from the mayor, but if she’s putting any pressure on his shoulder, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t budge an inch.

“Your people are dying, dammit, Aldweld. This is not the time for petty squabbles. I’ll take care of it, and I’ll do it for free. Do you really want to condemn people to die when you could have solved the issue so easily?”

“Escort the witcher away,” the mayor says a little more forcefully.

A few other patrol people join Yanaar, and although the witcher lingers for a moment, staring at the mayor with a look of utter contempt, he eventually allows himself to be led away. Jaskier follows, catching up with him just as they let him go, appearing all too eager to be free of the witcher. He supposes that manhandling someone of Geralt’s size is probably rather terrifying, so he’s reluctant on judging them for it.

There are still eyes on them, he notices, even though the crowd is beginning to disperse.

“Geralt,” he starts, though he suddenly realizes that he doesn’t really have anything to say after that. He can tell that the witcher is aggravated, to say the least, but he doesn’t know how to comfort him.

“That imbecile...” Geralt shakes his head, his voice something between mournful and a low growl. “People are going to die because of him, and he doesn’t even allow me to come close to the monster.”

“He is quite daft,” Jaskier offers. “But in times like these... do you really need permission to to kill a monster?”

“I do when the area has been barricaded and I’m not allowed past the barrier.”

“Oh.”

They stand in relative silence for a few moments, Geralt occasionally grumbling something under his breath, pacing up and down a small patch of street, and Jaskier thinking, trying to come up with some way to calm Geralt down or solve the problem entirely. Preferably the latter.

“Well, I suppose I could call in some favors, maybe get the mayor to relent,” Jaskier offers. It’s not often that he uses anything related to his family or his title for anything, but if it’ll save lives, he’s willing to do it. Maybe it’ll help to knock some sense into the mayor, too.

But Geralt shakes his head. “No. The last thing we need is to involve politics in this. Besides, I doubt any favor you could call in would have that kind of power.”

You’d be surprised, Jaskier wants to say, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t told Geralt about his family - he hasn’t told anyone about his family since moving all the way from Lettenhove, and he’s not sure that he wants to. It’s one of the few topics he’d rather avoid, one of the few things about which he’s actually private.

“Well, what then?” he asks instead.

Geralt shakes his head. “There’s nothing we can do. The mayor knows what he’s doing. I only wish the people he’s sending knew, too.”

“Well, in all fairness, it is the king’s troop. The mayor’s just got freedom to send them to tend to anything that needs tending.”

“Or he can hire a witcher. It’s within his power to make that choice.”

“True, I guess it is. Do you think he knows, though? How unprepared they are? I mean, I know you told him but maybe -“

“He knows, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts. “He knows. He’s afraid, he’s afraid that he’s losing control of the situation, and he believes that if he lets a witcher handle it rather than his own people, he’ll be admitting defeat.”

“So instead he sends a bunch of people to their deaths? Seems like a strange policy to me,” Jaskier points out.

Something shifts in Geralt’s expression at that, and for the life of him, Jaskier can’t read it. He thinks it might be a look of sad familiarity, or just a cold smile. It could be something else entirely. Reading Geralt is not easy, but he’ll get the hang of it, he tells himself.

“People do strange things when they are afraid,” Geralt says after a moment.

Jaskier nods. He knows. He’s watched how people have reacted to the change in the world, to how a monster could now be lurking in every corner. They’re mistrustful, reserved, far too eager to turn on one another. It’s not everyone, of course - there are those who go above and beyond to help, there’s a woman who drives a van through town every morning to distribute supplies to those who are too afraid to leave their homes, there are volunteers helping to rebuild houses that were knocked down by monsters, and there were several functions organized to raise funds for disaster relief. Really, it warms his heart to see how people have come together to help. But then there are those who turn on their neighbors, those who are quick to cast aspersions and assign blame.

People truly can do strange things when they are afraid.

“Geralt,” he starts, frowning a little as he speaks, “I don’t want to just drop it. To leave them to die. Are you really quite sure there’s nothing we can do?”

A sigh leaves Geralt’s lips and he nods. “I’m sorry, Jaskier, but I don’t think there is.”

He takes in a deep breath, eyes closing as he shakes his head.

“Okay, then. Do you want to come in? I think pretty much everyone is gone, so the way should be clear,” Jaskier offers, his tone resigned.

Geralt nods. “That’s probably best, you shouldn’t be out here in your pajamas any longer than you have to.”

Jaskier hadn’t noticed his outfit, not until that moment. Suddenly, he’s overly aware of it and he feels a blush coming, but he fights it off. It’s a very nice set of pajamas if he does say so himself, and, well, everyone’s seen it already, so there’s no use in crying over that spilled milk. He’s just going to own up to it and that’ll be that, he decides. “It is a bit chilly,” he comments as nonchalantly as he can, rubbing his arms as if to ward off the cold.

Geralt smiles knowingly, a subtle twitch of his lips. “Come on, Jaskier.”

As they make their way back, Jaskier notices that a few people have hung back, and he feels eyes on them as they enter the house. The gossip mill of the town has changed to adapt to the times, but he’s still pretty sure that he knows what one of the topics of interest will be soon enough.

*****

His croissant is burnt to a crisp by the time he gets back, and the house smells strongly of charred bread, but he supposes he’s probably lucky that it wasn’t any worse. After mournfully throwing out the pastry, which by now resembled more closely a lump of coal than a delicacy, he decides that instead of heating up more food for them, he’ll get changed and do a quick run to the nearby bakery. He’ll buy them a nice cake for breakfast.

Yeah, that’ll smooth things over.

It occurs to him when he’s halfway home already that he never asked Geralt what kind of cakes he likes, or if he even likes cake at all, but he supposes it’s a little too late for that. He’ll like it, Jaskier tells himself. After all, he’s pretty sure that the majority of people like cake. What’s not to like?

He gets back to find Geralt awkwardly standing in the kitchen, looking far more out of place than he’s ever seen the witcher. Jaskier laughs, if only because it’s somewhat comical to see the stoic witcher subdued by an empty kitchen, and because he really doesn’t know how else to react. “Just to be clear, when I say ‘make yourself at home’, I mean... sit down, get yourself some water or a soda from the fridge, watch TV - you know, whatever people do at home. I mean, I’ve stood around in the kitchen before, too, but it’s really not the intended effect of the phrase.” There’s a lightly teasing tone to his voice.

“I didn’t know what do,” Geralt explains.

Jaskier smiles somewhat fondly, setting the cake down on the table. “Never fear, I’m back with food so that’s all behind you now. Oh, I - I may have forgotten to ask what kind of cake you like, so I hope this is okay. It’s lemon.”

“Never tried it,” Geralt admits, “but it should be fine. Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” Jaskier beams, cutting a piece for Geralt and then another for himself. His mouth waters. That bakery is one of the best in the Continent, and while he absolutely does not have nearly enough information to support that statement, he’ll defend it with his dying breath.

Or until he finds a better one.

“Do you always have cake for breakfast?” Geralt asks after a moment, picking at his piece for a few seconds before scooping up a bite. He smiles slightly as he eats, and Jaskier beams even more. He likes it. For some reason, that brings a warmth to his heart.

“Oh, you know, only when my parents are out of town.” Geralt raises an eyebrow at him, and Jaskier relents. “Well, you know, I don’t really have the most well-stocked kitchen, so sometimes. I like something sweet in the morning.”

Geralt answers with a simple ‘hm’.

He’s on his second piece of cake when he notices it, though he supposes Geralt hears it first - by the time he’s shifted his attention from his cake to the noise, Geralt is already staring fixedly towards the kitchen archway, that unblinking stare that makes Jaskier think of the way a dog’s ears perk up when it’s hunting.

By the time he turns around, Geralt already has slung his sword scabbard back over his shoulders, and he’s carefully stalking towards the living room.

Then comes the sound of breaking class, and Geralt cursing.

Jaskier jumps to his feet, running to find Geralt, his heart pounding in his chest, adrenaline leaving him with shaky limbs, legs that bound over to the living room with unexpected ease and he nearly overshoots, staggering as he tries to come to a halt next to the witcher.

He braces himself against Geralt and then he sees them.

Large dogs, thin enough that he can see each and every one of their ribs protruding, menacing snarls on their mouths, which are lined with very sharp teeth, and only skin where he’d expect their eyes to be. They’re approaching on a slow crouch, inching closer fearlessly even as Geralt brandishes his sword, one arm outstretched to hold Jaskier back, the other waving the sword in what is clearly a warning to the dogs.

He doesn’t think they understand it.

“Barghests,” Geralt explains in a low growl. “They won’t back down.”

“Well, then... I don’t think you’ve got much of a choice, do you? Because they might be a bit on the scrawny side, but I’m pretty sure we still can’t outrun them.”

“I can’t,” Geralt replies. “This sword is steel, it won’t work on them. It’ll wound, but not much. I need you to do something for me, Jaskier.”

One of the barghests is nearly upon them, and by all the gods, he doesn’t want to get ripped to shreds by monstrous dogs. He likes dogs. If he’s to be killed by some monstrous version of some animal, couldn’t it be some insect? A spider, maybe a giant beetle?

Maybe it’ll be quick, at least. Maybe it’ll go straight for the jugular and he’ll be dead in seconds.

“Jaskier!”

“Oh, uh - right, yes, favor. Absolutely, whatever you want.”

Geralt sighs slightly, and Jaskier has the distinct feeling that he’s not too confident on the musician’s ability to complete the job. At any other time, he’d be offended by that, but at the moment, he really can’t help but wonder if Geralt isn’t right to doubt him. Really, this seems a little too crucial for him.

“I need you to run to Roach and grab my silver sword. It’ll be wrapped and stashed at her side in its scabbard. If you take it out of the cover, be careful, it could take your fingers off easy.”

“Who or what is Roach, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, figuring that now that it seems like rather essential information, maybe Geralt will deign to answer him.

“Did I mention go quickly? I don’t know how long I can hold off the barghests. She’ll be near the mayor’s house. Go, now!”

As he turns around and makes a mad dash for the exit that leads to his backyard, Jaskier can hear the barghests at his heels, bounding after him. He gets a brief look at the fight as he turns to close the door, hoping to buy himself some time - a couple have stayed behind and are locked in battle with Geralt, but most chased after him, and they scratch at the door with powerful paws, trying to break free.

Jaskier runs, jumps over the fence that delineates his yard, and sprints over to the mayor’s house. And that’s when he notices something he missed entirely earlier in the day. Half hidden by trees and shrubbery, a few feet into the mayor’s front yard, is a horse. She - for that must be Roach, there’s no way that the mayor simply decided to start keeping a horse in his yard - is grazing calmly, completely aware of the plight that has befallen her witcher. Jaskier approaches cautiously, but she hardly pays him any mind, even when he moves to pat her neck. It should be safe to search for the sword, then, he decides.

It’s easy enough to spot it. Strapped to the saddle, just below the saddlebags, is a large cylindrical object, wrapped in cloth and secured perhaps a little too well. Jaskier fiddles with the straps, tugs at it and tries to untie it, but in the end it takes a few deep breaths that calm his racing heart for him to figure out how to unfasten it from the horse. He detangles it from the cloth, then, with some effort, he runs back to his house, bounding in the front door this time.

The moment Jaskier reaches his side, Geralt tosses his steel sword to the ground and quickly unsheathes the silver, pushing Jaskier out of the way as he moves to run one of the barghests through. It dissipates, leaving nothing but a few specks of a strange, glowing dust behind.

Jaskier, quickly deciding that he’s more of a burden than help for Geralt in his particular moment, tries for the kitchen, but he’s intercepted by one - no, two, three, four barghests. He yelps, and Geralt quickly takes care of the two monsters he was wrestling to turn and help Jaskier. Distracted, the first barghest is easy to deal with, but the second and third are more of a challenge, and they manage to slam Geralt down to the floor while the fourth still bared its fangs menacingly at Jaskier.

It all happens in a second.

Geralt wrestles himself from under the barghests and tosses one of them aside while felling the second in a quick swoop. His attention turns towards Jaskier, but he’s a moment too late - the fourth barghest has pounced, and it’s pinning Jaskier down under its heavy paws, snapping its jaws at him while he desperately tries to push it away. His voice is caught in his throat, and he can’t seem to scream, no matter how much he might want to.

In that brief moment of distraction, the third barghest jumps, sending Geralt flying forward. His sword makes contact with the fourth, which dissipates almost immediately, and it’s only luck that makes the trajectory of the sword miss Jaskier’s midsection, allowing Geralt enough time to twist around and slam the edge of the blade against the barghest with such force that Jaskier is sure it would have sliced the beast in half if it didn’t discorporate the moment it dies.

Geralt falls to the ground, back slamming heavily against Jaskier’s legs, and he lets out a small yelp of pain. The witcher promptly sits up.

“So, barghests. That’s new. Haven’t seen any of those around,” Jaskier comments, still shaking slightly with the adrenaline.

“That’s because they have to be summoned. They’re spectral dogs, not native to this plane,” Geralt explains.

Jaskier frowns. “What, does someone think we have too little a variety of monsters right now?”

Geralt shakes his head. “They were after you, Jaskier. Someone’s sent them after you. I should have noticed it before, my medallion should have warned me when the bond was created.”

“Why didn’t it, then?” he asks, because it’s easier to figure out the minutiae than it is to deal with the fact that someone sent a pack of spectral dogs after him and if Geralt hadn’t been there, he’d be dead. If they’d caught him while he was out on the streets, bringing them back some cake, he’d be dead. If Geralt had been just a little slower, he’d be dead.

A shiver runs through him, but he ignores it.

“My medallion always pulses around you, Jaskier,” Geralt points out.

“Oh. You really should get a new one, we could’ve died.”

Geralt only rolls his eyes. “We need to get you out of here, somewhere I can keep an eye on you, somewhere more defensible.”

Jaskier blinks, staring up at Geralt in utter shock. “Wait, do you mean... this might happen again?”

“It almost certainly will. Jaskier, someone wants you dead. People don’t summon barghests on a whim. Come on, I know somewhere I can take you.” With that, Geralt stands up and offers a hand to Jaskier, who promptly hoists himself to his feet.

Geralt starts heading for the door, but he stops after a moment, glancing back at Jaskier. “You coming?”

“Wait, now? Can’t I at least pack first?”

“No.”

Grumbling slightly - he’ll miss his clothes very much - he grabs his phone and kneels down next to his guitar to pack it into its case. Geralt opens his mouth to complain, but it ends up as a long-suffering sigh when Jaskier silences him with a look. He’s already leaving behind his clothes and his laptop, plus some pretty decent recording equipment. There’s absolutely no way that he’s going to leave his guitar.

As he’s heading out the door, he grabs the spare phone charger he keeps in the living room for good measure. Who knows whether there’ll be one that works with his phone wherever Geralt is taking him?

The witcher is outside already, fastening the silver blade to his horse, the other one already back in its scabbard on his back. Jaskier walks up to him, smiling at Roach.

“So, do you go around everywhere on horseback? Seems a little impractical,” Jaskier asks.

“I don’t leave town much,” Geralt answers simply.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “But around town? Surely people would have noticed if you went around riding a horse.”

Geralt shrugs. “I guess they didn’t.”

That tears a small gasp from Jaskier, who moves to cover his mouth theatrically. “You do! Oh, my, you ride around town on a horse, that’s - that’s brilliant, that’s what that is. But... why? It really can’t be practical.”

“I like horses. And they’re good at detecting monsters, too.”

Geralt climbs on the saddle and urges Roach forward. Jaskier jogs a little to catch up as the horse begins to walk down the street. “Geralt, do you think I could get up there, too? I just - “

“No.”

Jaskier sighs, but doesn’t insist. Instead, he falls silent for all of thirty seconds before a question pops into his mind. “Geralt? Where exactly are we going?”

“To my ranch.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier just wants a vacation at the ranch, but things never quite work out like that, do they?

The ranch, as it turns out, is located just a little over twenty minutes out of the town. It’s a nice enough walk, at first through quiet streets then down a little-used highway surrounded by farms and ranches. Jaskier tries to pull Geralt into a conversation, but his efforts are fruitless - if Geralt is usually quiet, that’s nothing compared to his vague acknowledgment of anything that Jaskier says as they walk down the road towards the ranch. He figures the witcher is probably lost in thought, but he can’t imagine what might have him buried so deeply into his own head.

In the meantime, Jaskier is desperately trying to escape his, at least for the time being, and he’s having varying levels of success. At least Geralt, even silent and taciturn, is easy to talk to - he can ramble on and on about whatever comes to mind. Granted, there’s a decent chance Geralt won’t reply, but that’s fine. He can keep the conversation going on his own.

Finally, they come upon a wooden gate, and Geralt hops off his horse to open it, leading Roach inside. Jaskier follows.

He’s greeted by a large expanse of land, green grass and wildflowers as far as the eye can see. To the right, there’s a round enclosure surrounded by white fence, the earth beaten and bare - he’s fairly sure he recognizes it from TV as the place where horses... do whatever it is that horses and jockeys do, he’s really not that sure what it is. A little further ahead is a barn, red paint fading but still clearly discernible, exactly how Jaskier always imagined a barn. And a little to the left of them, several yards away from the non-existent hustle of the highway, is a house. Larger than most of the residences in the small town, it stands at two stories, and it looks every bit the country house of Jaskier’s dreams, complete with a large front porch and a balcony on the second floor. He’s in love the moment he sets eyes on it.

The witcher, clearly unaware of Jaskier’s daydreams of playing his guitar on that front porch, composing lyrics to the sound of crickets and frogs in the background, just keeps on walking towards the barn, and Jaskier has to run to catch up with him.

“So, what do we do now?” Jaskier asks as he slows to a walk next to the witcher.

Geralt takes a moment to reply. “We try to figure out who wants you dead. Save for magic, it’s the only way to track down who summoned the barghests.”

“Really, straight to business, then?” Jaskier looks longingly around, taking in the ranch. It’s a beautiful day, and the whole place looks straight out of a period piece - it’s teeming with inspiration. He wonders whether he’d be able to climb a tree and play his guitar sitting on a low branch. Something tells him that he wouldn’t actually get to the lowest branch if he’s carrying his guitar, but still, it’s a nice thought.

Oh, would Geralt happen to have a pool somewhere? He’d love to go swimming. Though thanks to Geralt’s ‘no-packing’ rule, he doesn’t actually have a bathing suit with him.

Geralt sighs, leading Roach into the barn. “Someone tried to kill you, Jaskier. They could be successful next time. We can’t simply sit and wait for their next move.”

“Fine, fine, I suppose you’re right.” Jaskier leans against a beam in the barn. “So, do you ride a lot, then?”

“Jaskier.” There’s a warning tone in Geralt’s voice. Jaskier raises an eyebrow. He’s really not sure why the witcher is mad at him. ”You’re avoiding the subject.”

Jaskier sighs, rolling his eyes. His arms cross over his chest, then fall back to his sides in exasperation. “No one wants me dead, Geralt. I mean, clearly someone does, but I have no idea who it could be.”

Roach is now in her bay, waiting patiently as Geralt puts away all of her tack. Jaskier considers petting her, but suspects that Geralt might not like that, so he stays where he is until the witcher comes back. “No enemies?” Geralt finally asks, feeding Roach a carrot and giving her an affectionate pat as he speaks.

“Come on, Geralt, who even has enemies?” he chuckles slightly. Geralt remains as stony-faced as ever. In fact, he might remain a little too stony-faced. Jaskier frowns. “Wait, do you have enemies? And monsters don’t count, they’re not exactly in a position to feel very warm and fuzzy about you.”

“Of course I do,” Geralt replies simply.

Jaskier moves to cover his mouth in shock. “Oh, yes, of course. Naturally.”

Really, he watches TV, he knows that whenever anything bad happens to someone and people need to find the one responsible for it, they ask about enemies. He’s just never thought of someone as actually having a proper enemy - people who don’t like them, sure. People who might go out of the way to mess with them? Yeah, he’d met plenty of those. But there’s a difference between that an enemy, right?

Then again, Geralt does ride around on horseback clad in armor and with a sword slung over his back. Maybe it makes sense that he has enemies, like something out of a historical drama.

“Valdo Marx,” Jaskier says after a moment of thought. “If I was going to call anyone I know an enemy, then that’d be Valdo Marx. The bastard is a musician in Cidaris. Can you believe the comment he wrote on Toss a Coin? I’m a talentless wastrel who panders to the taste of the masses? How dare he?”

“You’re a musician, Jaskier. I’m sure you’re used to criticism.”

“Well, yes, but Valdo Marx - Toss a Coin to Your Witcher is not pandering to the taste of the masses, it’s a hit on its own, you -“

Geralt interrupts him before he can find a creative way to insult Valdo. “Wait, you actually published that?”

“Toss a Coin? Of course! It’s wonderful - oh, Geralt, you should see it, that’s my most famous song by far. It’s everywhere, even my mother has heard of it, and you have no idea the size of the rock she lives under.” Then, a frown. “Wait, does that mean you haven’t heard it?”

“Not since you played it for me.” Geralt shakes his head.

Jaskier gasps. “No, no, no, that’s unacceptable! Hang on, let me just grab it on my phone.”

“I’ve already heard it live, Jaskier, I don’t need a reprise.”

“No, you heard the rough draft, you need the finished product, it’s far more polished,” Jaskier guarantees.

“Then play it on your guitar, if you must.”

It’s all to no avail - Jaskier has the link on his favorites, and he’s already loading the video on his phone and perching himself on a bay door so that Geralt can see the video more easily. The witcher sighs, but relents, leaning back against a pole as the first chords are struck. When it’s over, he swears he can see the faintest ghost of a smile on Geralt’s lips.

“It’s really that popular?” Geralt asks after a moment.

Jaskier beams. “It is! It’s a hit, Geralt. I wrote a hit. Can you believe that? And - and it’s about you, which means you’re famous - Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf!”

He’s shaking with adrenaline all over again, almost bouncing up and down. If his feet were actually on the floor rather than on a wooden beam that ran over a bay door, he thinks he might. He’s written a hit. By all the gods, he’s actually done it, his name is out there, he has so many followers, likes, subscribes - Toss a Coin is on everyone’s lips. There are memes using its lyrics, memes. He’s been memed.

“Hm.”

“Well, don’t jump up and down with joy on my account, it’s only the biggest accomplishment of my career,” Jaskier snarks, though really, Geralt’s lack of enthusiasm doesn’t bother him much - it’d have been nice to get a congratulations, at least, but hey, in the brief time he’s known the witcher, he’s never seen him show much enthusiasm for anything. Anger, yes, but enthusiasm? Maybe he just has a different way of going about it.

Jaskier puts his phone back in his pocket and hops down from the door.

“It’s... a good song,” Geralt offers after a moment.

Jaskier smiles. He already knew the witcher’s opinion, of course, but it’s still nice to hear it.

“Valdo Marx. Do you really believe he would be capable of this?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier has the feeling that he simply can’t change topics quickly enough.

He laughs, shaking his head vehemently. “No, no, no, never! Valdo is a complete asshole, but I’m pretty sure his talents are restricted to insulting my music on the internet, not witchcraft or whatever it is that’s going on here.”

“Sorcery,” Geralt corrects, “and if you don’t think it could be him, why bring it up at all?”

Jaskier shrugs. “You asked for enemies, he’s the only one I can think of.”

But of course, it’s not quite that simple, is it? He’s not nearly successful enough, even with the one hit song, to be targeted for his music. He, personally, doesn’t have any enemies, only antagonistic relationships that don’t go beyond a few spats. But his family could have, couldn’t they? They’re in the public eye, they have their own enmities among houses - he’s always tried to stay away from all of that, he ran off as soon as he could, off to Oxenfurt and then off to his own adult life, but he’s still tied to them. He knows he always will be. And other people know that, too.

He should say something.

He should tell Geralt, he should lay all the cards on the table now because the witcher has taken it upon himself to protect him and he can’t do that if he doesn’t know everything. But Jaskier hasn’t told a single soul about his family since leaving Oxenfurt. He hasn’t told anyone, and he doesn’t want that to change. He definitely doesn’t want to tell Geralt.

So he doesn’t.

The moment comes and passes, all while he stares innocently at Geralt, just waiting for him to dictate their next move.

The witcher stands up and makes his way out of the stable, leading Jaskier towards the large wooden house. Where a moment ago he’d been excited to get to know the ranch, excited to play his guitar on that quaint little porch, excited to take in all that it has to offer and write beautiful songs about those expansive grounds and the nature around them, all he can do now is try not to think too much about the irony of him concealing potentially vital information about himself all the while Geralt opens his home to him.

Geralt, silent, taciturn, who seems to consider revealing even the smallest piece of information about himself about five times before actually saying it; and Jaskier, who is supposed to be an open book, who could hardly take longer than a moment to consider inviting in the man who tackled him and pressed a blade to his neck.

Is he screwing everything up?

He’s pretty sure he’s screwing everything up.

Geralt is going to get hurt, he’s going to figure everything out, and then he’ll hate Jaskier for it and it shouldn’t matter so much, should it? But it does and by all the gods, why doesn’t he just open his mouth and tell him? It’d be easy. It’d be so easy, and then everything would be fine. Why doesn’t he want to tell him?

“You’re very quiet,” Geralt remarks as they begin to climb up the front steps.

Jaskier swallows. “Oh, uh... I’m just tired. Long walk.”

“You had plenty of energy back at the stables,” the witcher points out.

“You know how it is. Adrenaline. Toss a Coin is trending, yay!” If that’s not the least cheerful yay he’s ever heard, then - well, then he’s heard some pretty depressing yays. He wants to kick himself for the very poor performance, but his mind seems to be stuck on another task.

Geralt isn’t fooled. He turns around, and of course there’s concern in those eyes, he can’t just make this easy, can he? “You were excited before you brought up the song. What’s going on, Jaskier?”

There it is, that’s his opening. If he wants to say anything, he can just do it now.

“Well, someone’s trying to kill me. That kind of puts a dampener on a day, doesn’t it? And all before lunchtime, at that!”

“Hm.”

Something tells him that the witcher still doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t press any further, and Jaskier doesn’t volunteer any information, so the subject seems dropped for now. Hopefully there won’t be any reason to bring it up later.

They go inside.

The house is as old-fashioned inside as it is outside, and Jaskier loves it. There’s a large living room with a fireplace - unlit for now, no doubt, because it’s the warmer months of spring, summer biting at their heels - and a smaller dining room, complete with a large, solid wood table and a set of chairs Jaskier is sure must be antiques. The kitchen, albeit equipped with more modern appliances, otherwise matches the other rooms entirely, and it’s even got a coal-fueled oven of its own.

Geralt leads him upstairs, past a few closed doors, right to end of the corridor. He pushes the door open, and it reveals a spacious bedroom, with a bed stripped of its sheets in the middle, a large desk sitting under the window, and a built-in closet opposite to it. The walls are bare, there’s not a single item of decor in the room, but Jaskier can’t help but think that with a little work, it could be a beautiful place.

“This is your room. I’ll get you some sheets, too, I just wasn’t expecting company,” Geralt explains.

Jaskier blinks. “It’s my what now?”

“Your room. Jaskier, do we really need to go over the fact that someone is trying to kill you again?” the witcher asks, a tired and exasperated tone in his voice.

Jaskier shakes his head. “No, no, it’s just - I didn’t think I’d be staying here long enough to need a room. I figured it’d be a quick... tracking or whatever, and it’d be done.”

“Could be. Or it could be weeks until we get anywhere. Either way, I’ve got a spare bedroom, so you don’t need to sleep on the couch.”

Jaskier slowly nods, setting down his guitar and fishing his charger out of his pocket, dropping it on the desk. He’s not sure why any of this is such a huge surprise to him, but still... Geralt is giving him a room to stay in - he might be essentially living at the ranch for a little while, for a few weeks. Could it really take that long for them to figure out what’s going on? Would he like living there for so long - would Geralt like having him there for so long? He really doesn’t want to be an unwelcome house guest.

After a moment, he turns around, a smile on his face. He’s going to be positive about this, he decides, no matter what. “Thank you, Geralt! If I’m staying here longer than a night or so I’ll definitely need to swing by my place and grab a few clothes, though.”

“Hm. Maybe later. We don’t know what could be waiting for you back there.”

Jaskier frowns. “You don’t mean to say that they could have set a trap for me, do you?”

A small sigh leaves Geralt’s lips. “Jaskier -“

“I know, I know,” Jaskier interrupts, “someone’s trying to kill me, yada yada yada.”

“You should take this more seriously.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to sigh. Yes, maybe he should. He knows full well that he might not make it through this, he felt the breath of that barghest inches from his face, sharp claws on his chest. His shirt has small puncture marks in it to prove it, his arms ache slightly from the strain of holding the beast back. He knows it’s serious. That doesn’t mean, however, that it’s easy for him to anticipate what might be dangerous, and just thinking about it, just thinking that even going back home could be his undoing, makes his chest feel a little too tight. Making light of it makes it easier to bear. So maybe he should take it more seriously, but he won’t.

He smiles at Geralt, and he leaves it at that.

“So, what now? Do we... cast spells? Make potions? Interrogate Valdo Marx so you can do that growly thing you do and scare him senseless?” Jaskier asks, plopping down on the bed animatedly.

Geralt shakes his head. “If you don’t know who it might be, then the only thing we can do is wait for their next move.”

“Didn’t you mention magic, though?”

“Yes. But I’m not a sorcerer. Neither are you.”

“It’s good that we cleared that up, but Geralt... there’s got to be some mage nearby. We’ll just find them and ask for help. That’s got to be a better option than just sitting here and waiting,” Jaskier suggests.

Geralt regards him for a long moment, golden eyes boring into him, and then, finally, he shakes his head. “No.”

A small groan of frustration leaves Jaskier’s mouth. “Why not?”

“There are no mages nearby. None that I trust, at least. We’ll not leave your fate up to a herbalist who learned to control Chaos to make her crops grow and warm her kettle at best. Tracking magic can be difficult when you’ve little to go on, and it’s easy to get the wrong target. If we’re distracted pursuing one lead when whatever is next comes... No, we’ll stay here.”

Jaskier wants to protest, he really does. But Geralt is making a lot of sense, and he can’t ignore the intensity with which the witcher regarded him earlier. He’s not quite sure what it means just yet, but it means something, and it makes it easy to trust him, somehow. So if Geralt says they’re not going, they’re not going.

“Alright, then. Care for a round of gwent?” Jaskier asks, a bit of a smile on his face. Then, he adds, “oh, bollocks, my deck is still back home.”

Instead of playing cards, Jaskier settles for sitting outside and scribbling lyrics on an old notebook Geralt found for him - and it must be truly old, with yellowed pages and a faded cover. Jaskier pays it no mind, though, far more focused on the wilderness around him. He’s sure there’s a song there, in the calling birds and the chirping crickets, the faint smell of wet grass and the snorts of the horses nearby, he just has to find it, he just has to -

“Geralt?” he calls, beginning to stand.

The witcher doesn’t answer, and dammit, didn’t he promise to stay within earshot? He asked Jaskier to stay out of the way as he went about his ranch work, but he promised he’d be nearby, he promised he would come if there was trouble, and now where is he?

“Geralt!” he tries again, silently begging the witcher to hear him.

Maybe Geralt doesn’t think it’s important, he thinks to himself. Maybe he thinks he’s just bored and looking for company, though the panic in his voice really should give it away. There’s no creature approaching as far as he can tell, there’s nothing but a squirrel or two running up the trees, birds flying from branch to branch - the ranch is as idyllic now as it was before. Geralt has no reason to suspect anything.

Except it doesn’t feel idyllic.

Jaskier isn’t sure how, but he can feel it. He can sense something like electricity in the air, he can feel the hair in his arms raise in reaction to it, he can feel it and he instinctively knows something is wrong.

He’s glancing around, and yet he knows he won’t see anything. Again, he doesn’t understand how he can possibly know this, but he does. He knows it as instinctively as he knows how to breathe. The world is growing dark, as though a storm were approaching, but when he glances up he sees nothing but blue skies. He swallows, backs away.

There is a lot that he knows and doesn’t understand how. But what he doesn’t know is where he can find shelter, where is truly safe. He wants to run to Geralt, every cell in his body is yelling at him to run to him, but he doesn’t know where he is. The stables? Perhaps. But while Jaskier might not know the ranch, he’s long since caught onto the fact that what he’s seen so far is very little compared to its true extent - just the window in his room already faces a wholly unexplored section of it, showing him a small orchard and cows grazing in the distance.

Geralt could be anywhere, and if he moves, who knows how long it’ll take for the witcher to find him? He has to stay put.

“Geralt!” he shouts again, praying to any deity that might hear him that he’s heard at last.

But there’s no footsteps running towards him, no gruff voice answering him, and Jaskier swallows, accepting his fate. There’s no rescue coming. He needs to deal with this himself, if that’s at all possible.

The world grows darker and darker, stripped of color, and Jaskier finds himself sinking to the floor. He doesn’t remember telling his body to do that, but an attempt to stand back up tells him that it wasn’t his choice, but rather his knees’ failure that brought him down onto the ground. That’s alright. It won’t make a difference, he figures, he’s doomed anyway.

And then darkness envelops the world, and the sound of the birds and the crickets and the gentle breeze is gone.

*****

At first, the darkness feels like a lead blanket pressing down on him, not quite crushing or suffocating, but heavy, impossible to ignore. Then the feeling is gone, and all that’s left is a strange emptiness, as though something were missing, as though everything were missing. He breathes, but doesn’t feel air come in. Strangely, each breath still seems to feed him oxygen. He moves, but every movement is too easy. He speaks, and his voice is too loud.

But he doesn’t have much time to think about that, for soon there’s a woman approaching, dark hair cascading down her shoulders, a loose green dress flowing in ways that a dress shouldn’t move without wind. She’s the only spot of color in the darkness, and Jaskier feels inexplicably drawn towards her. His knees, he finds, have started working again.

“Oh, clever. Very clever,” she says, nodding her head slightly as she glances around, though he doesn’t understand why. There’s nothing to see there, only darkness. “I’ll still find you, you know? There’s no use in shrouding yourself in darkness.”

He glances around, too, trying to understand what she means. He sees nothing but the pitch-black that swallowed him. “What do you mean?” he asks.

She studies him for a moment, then her lips curve into a smile. “Oh, little lark, you have no idea what you are, do you?”

He stares at her, puzzled, expectant. He knows what he is, of course he does. He’s a musician, he’s the heir to the Pankratz family, he’s the Viscount of Lettenhove, he’s Geralt’s new houseguest, he’s the idiot who falls in love too fast and too easily, he’s his family’s greatest disappointment, the writer of the new hit song Toss a Coin, an amateur lutist, a singer - and a pretty good one if he does say so himself - and a guitarist, a songwriter. That’s who he is, what he is.

But if this woman knows something he doesn’t know, he’s all ears.

She doesn’t say anything, though, only smiles, and it’s not even threatening, it’s endearing and almost... fond? Jaskier reaches the conclusion that he’s somehow managed to find himself in a situation where he understands quite literally nothing of what’s going on.

He opens his mouth to ask her what she means, but then the darkness is melting away, the sound of birds and crickets filling his ears, breeze blowing softly past him. And he’s not standing anymore, he’s sitting, his back slumped against a wall, arms fallen by his sides. He finds himself opening his eyes, though he can’t remember them having been closed.

Geralt is crouched next to him, golden eyes full of concern, a hand laid over his shoulder. He can see slit pupils dilating as Jaskier blinks and take a few deep breaths, his pulse racing before calming down. He has no idea what he’s feeling, why his body is reacting the way it is, but the witcher bears with him, sitting silently by his side as he works through whatever it is that he’s working through.

He’s exhausted, Jaskier realizes. He has no idea why, but he is.

“Geralt,” he finally says after a few long minutes, “where were you? You said you were going to be nearby and -“

“I was here,” Geralt answers. “I heard you call and I came running. You couldn’t see me, you couldn’t hear me. There was magic in the air. I couldn’t bring you out of it, so I waited.”

Jaskier frowns. He remembers, he remembers standing up from the chair, calling Geralt. He remembers backing away, calling him again, then once more. He remembers looking around, hoping to see the witcher running towards him, inhumanly fast and ready to face whatever was thrown at them. But he didn’t see him. He saw the trees, the stables, but no Geralt. And yet he was there. How?

“Jaskier?”

“I didn’t see you. But I saw - I saw things happening. But you weren’t there. How?”

“Magic,” the witcher answers simply. “Magic can make strange things happen. What did you see, Jaskier?”

He closes his eyes, a shiver running through him. “I could feel it, I could feel it like electricity -“

“In the air,” Geralt completes with a contemplative hum. His brows are knit into a frown.

“Yeah. And things started getting darker and darker, until I couldn’t see anything anymore, or even hear the birds. And then... Then this woman showed up. She said there’s no point in shrouding myself in darkness, she’ll find me either way? And she said... She said I don’t even know what I am.”

Geralt says nothing aside from his trademark ‘hm’, and Jaskier watches him expectantly. Patience, he’s learned, sometimes rewards him with a better answer from Geralt.

And this turns out to be one of those times when it pays off. “So others have sensed it, too.”

Jaskier frowns. “Sensed what? Geralt, talk to me.”

But Geralt doesn’t, instead standing up and helping Jaskier back to his feet, then quickly making a beeline for the door. “Come on, back inside. I think I still have some sigils from Yen’s - it’s not important.” He shakes his head, and now Jaskier absolutely wants to hear that story.

They walk in, and Geralt promptly shuts the door, casting a Sign that spreads over the room, a barrier shimmering silver for a moment before disappearing. The hairs on his arm raise again, and he can feel a crackling that tells him the barrier is still there, even if he can’t see it. He reaches out to touch it, curious, but backs away at the last moment - he can feel it, he can feel it dancing at his fingertips, and he doesn’t understand it, but he knows he shouldn’t touch it.

“Geralt -“

But Geralt isn’t paying attention, he’s rushing to a cupboard under the stairs and pulling out boxes, boxes covered in layers upon layers of dust, some with labels in languages he can’t understand, others in Elder or Common. He wants to open them, desperately curious to know what secrets they hold, but he doesn’t, and instead he stands back and waits, arms crossed over his chest, fingers nervously tapping out an inaudible melody.

The box Geralt selects is labeled ‘Yen’, and he quickly finds what he’s looking for - a few stones with colorful sigils carved in them. Geralt then proceeds to lay the stones out at regular intervals around the room and mutter something Jaskier has to guess is a spell under his breath. The result is almost instant.

Something like a shockwave crosses the room, electricity filling the air once again. Jaskier shudders as it hits him, but it’s not unpleasant - it’s more akin to a breeze in a warm morning, enough to make him shiver but not enough that he’s truly cold. After a moment it settles, and he’s left staring quizzically at Geralt, silently demanding an explanation for his sudden need to redecorate the house with magic - though he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, what this is.

“Witcher magic isn’t very strong. Not compared to what mages can do,” Geralt offers in the way of an explanation. Jaskier is not satisfied, and he continues to stare him down until he relents and continues, “you should take a seat.”

Jaskier shakes his head, crossing his arms a little more tightly over himself in stubbornness. “No, Geralt. Just tell me, just tell me... Tell me what scared you so much about that. Tell me what she meant. Please, Geralt, I - I have no idea what’s going on and I’m scared.”

It takes a long time for Geralt to speak, but eventually, he does. “She’s trying to track you. What you felt, that was the tracking the spell. It should have been fainter, something I might not even pick up without the medallion, but somehow... you fought her, Jaskier. She had to intensify the spell, and she won, eventually, but not entirely. You connected with her, but you didn’t let her see your location. When you spoke with her, that’s what happened.”

“I - I fought her?” Jaskier frowns, then shakes his head. “No. No, that’s not possible, Geralt.”

“I told you my medallion always vibrates around you.”

“It’s broken. I told you, it’s broken, because -“

Geralt interrupts, shaking his head. “There’s something different about you, Jaskier. I don’t know what it is, but I sensed it the first time we met. So did she. I don’t know what she wants from you, I don’t know what she meant, but Jaskier... you shouldn’t be able to sense magic like you can. You shouldn’t be able to fight her like that.”

“What are you saying, Geralt?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

With a handful of stone sigils, Geralt turns around and ventures into the next room. As Jaskier watches him go, he realizes that what he felt before, even when the barghest was snapping at him, teeth dangerously close to his neck, wasn’t fear. No, this is fear. Cold and suffocating and dreadful and he’s so, so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make this chapter mostly fluff about them at the ranch, I really was. That was 100% the plan. Then I thought I’d throw in a little conflict. And then this happened.
> 
> Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys! As always, comments/kudos/bookmarks make my day, so thank you for all those that you’ve left!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is eloquent for about a whole minute and finds the whole ordeal to be exhausting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you were all so mad at Jaskier! Can’t say I blame you, though, he’s being pretty selfish and he knows it, too.
> 
> This chapter is a little bit shorter than the past two, but if my plotting goes according to plan the next couple of chapters are probably gonna make up for that!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos/bookmarks, they’re always amazing to read, and hopefully this chapter will help you be on good terms with Jaskier again!

Being a witcher, as it turns out, means that Geralt has an impressive knowledge of protective magic. He shrouds his house with protective stone sigils, and he gives Jaskier an amulet that he says should work well enough to keep him hidden at other times, though he’s expressly forbidden from leaving the ranch.

He grumbles and complains, never one to stay still for long and still desperately missing his clothes, his recording equipment, his laptop - pretty much everything he so suddenly left behind - but ultimately agrees. He knows venturing out would be dangerous, Geralt has made that abundantly clear.

So he spends his days playing and composing - he has enough time to even confirm that no, he’s not quite agile enough to climb a tree with his guitar strapped to his back. He tries to help Geralt, but the witcher usually sends him on his way, preferring to work alone. Still, bored and unused to having so much free time, he manages to wrestle a few tasks from Geralt on occasion, and he finds himself collecting eggs from the chickens, brushing the horses, and, one time, being sent off to polish swords before Geralt quickly realizes his mistake and holds him back by the scruff of his shirt, not releasing him until he gets a promise that Jaskier will not so much as touch the swords because they are very sharp and will cut off his fingers if he mishandles them.

All in all, it’s nice. He can see why Geralt likes living quietly in his ranch, and - well, he thinks he could really grow to like it, too.

Geralt writes to Yen, who is apparently Yennefer of Vengerburg herself, one of the famous sorceresses of the Lodge. He writes a letter, a physical letter, in pen and paper, which he then posts at the post office, and Jaskier is puzzled to no end - why not just write an email, which is far less likely to be attacked and eaten by a monster? But Geralt doesn’t answer, and Jaskier is left to fawn over the beautiful stationary the witcher owns, wondering whether he could get Geralt to lend it to him should he ever need to write a letter himself.

As a result, the two of them have taken to watching the mail very carefully, checking it as soon as it’s delivered every day. Jaskier usually misses it, finding himself easily distracted with something else, but Geralt is vigilant and punctual, and collects it promptly.

The day the letter comes, Jaskier is sitting in the living room, flipping through a very old bestiary he found tucked away in a bookshelf. The writing is difficult to read, full of flourishes and old Common, and the influences of Elder in the grammar and style keep throwing him off, but it’s certainly worth the effort, if only because of the bizarre ideas written into that book. He jumps up from the couch when he hears the door close, putting the book aside with a little more care than he usually would - the bindings are old and the pages feel loose, the ancient leather cracking and peeling - and he rushes to the kitchen.

The thought of what the woman said still makes his stomach sink, his heart twist painfully and shivers run down his spine every time without fail, but over the past couple of weeks, he’s grown increasingly anxious to understand it, and Yennefer might be able to provide them with an answer. It does help that although Geralt continues to prove more or less hopeless in comforting him with words, the way he ensures he’s always safe, constantly reminding him about the amulet, checking the stones in the house every day... It makes him feel a little better, a little less alone.

So he runs to the kitchen despite his stomach sinking, despite his heart twisting painfully and despite the shivers running down his spine. He runs to the kitchen and promptly perches himself on a counter, watching as Geralt sorts the mail with expectant eyes.

His hands find a letter that Geralt tossed aside. “What’s this?”

“Wrong address,” the witcher explains.

Jaskier finds the recipient information on the envelope, and his stomach sinks a little further, heart racing. Shaky fingers that he desperately tries to steady move to open the envelope, and he’s stopped by a heavy hand on his arm, golden eyes staring at him from beneath a furrowed brow.

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns.

Jaskier swallows, biting his lip to stop it from trembling slightly. He should’ve known. He really, really should have known.

“It’s okay, Geralt,” he assures him, “it’s for me.”

Geralt takes the letter from his hands, eyes scanning the recipient field once again. “It’s addressed to -“

“Julian Alfred Pankratz,” Jaskier completes. “Yeah, I know.”

Why, why did he think it would be a good idea to tell his mother where he’s been staying? It felt like the right thing to do at the time, the right choice considering that if something happened to him, to her, to someone close to them, she should know where to find him, but of course she couldn’t stay out of it, no matter how many times he asked. That’s why he doesn’t tell her things. He really has to remember that.

“Jaskier...” It sounds like a question this time, and Geralt is backing away.

Oh, he’s really screwed things up this time, hasn’t he?

“That’s what I usually go by, Jaskier. The name my parents gave me, that’s Julian. Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

Geralt nods slightly, though his brows are still furrowed. After a moment, he asks, “why is that name familiar? Pankratz...”

Jaskier winces. He knows the truth has to come out now, he knows that not telling Geralt before was bad, possibly unforgivable considering the situation, but not telling him now might as well be an outright lie. He knows he can be selfish sometimes, he knows that he was selfish before with Geralt, but even he has his limits, and he knows it’s been reached. Still, the question hurts, prying another nail from the coffin where he’s tried to bury that part of his identity.

“Well, my family, it’s... kind of in the public eye a lot. My mother is a countess, my father’s a duke, and I’m... I’m the Viscount of Lettenhove,” he explains, once again visibly wincing.

Geralt, Jaskier has noticed, isn’t very good at expressing emotions - not just in voicing them, but his facial expressions are hard to read, as is his tone. So when the look of fury on his face is unmistakable and unmissable, he knows things are bad.

They’re very, very bad.

Geralt stares at him for a moment, lips curving into a snarl, gold eyes that usually make him feel strangely warm now making shivers run down his spine. The witcher huffs, then turns around, walks a few paces and stands at the doorway, one arm supporting him against the banister. When he speaks, he still doesn’t turn to face him. “Why didn’t you tell me this before, Jaskier?”

His mouth has gone dry, and he licks his lips before answering, half buying himself some time to measure his words, for once. Not that it matters, part of him thinks, because he doesn’t see how this can be salvaged. “I don’t really tell anyone about my family. Not for years. I - we don’t speak anymore. Mom calls sometimes, but I usually ignore her. And she emails, I reply sometimes, but it’s not... it’s not really a relationship. I haven’t even seen them in years.”

Geralt shakes his head, still not turning around. “It doesn’t matter. They’re in the public eye, which makes you a target. This is different, Jaskier, this is your life on the line.”

“And yours, I know, I know.” He shakes his head.

“You knew this was relevant.” It’s not a question.

Still, Jaskier answers. “Yes.”

“And still, you didn’t say anything.”

“Yes.”

There’s a long silence.

Then, finally - “Get out.”

Jaskier startles.

“What?”

“Get out,” the witcher repeats, “now.”

“But I -“

“Now, Jaskier.”

Geralt’s voice is a low growl, and he knows this is a warning. He know he’s had three of them, and he’s not sure he’ll any have any others. He can’t possibly imagine Geralt hurting him, he has a hard time being afraid of him ever since that first day in his house, but still, he feels some level of instinct compelling him to obey even as he struggles to process. He takes in a sharp, hitching breath and hops off the counter, quickly making his way to the living room, where his guitar still rests. It’s nearly all that he packed in the first place, so he just grabs it and leaves.

*****

It’s... strange, being back in the city. He knows he didn’t spend that long on the ranch, only a couple of weeks, but he’s grown used to the horses - Geralt promised to teach him to ride a few days before, and now he’s beginning to realize that he won’t get to do that - and the nature sounds, to warm evenings slowly strumming his guitar on the porch, to early mornings arguing with the chickens to please relinquish their eggs to him, all while promising he’s not actually stealing their chicks.

Most of all, he’s grown used to Geralt.

And he thinks that maybe this would be easier to bear, maybe he could actually handle it, if it weren’t for the fact that he knows it’s all his fault. He knows he put Geralt at risk, he knows he should have told him, and -

Dammit, if he’d just told him they would probably be back at the ranch having a nice lunch right about now. He’s screwed everything up, and he knew he was screwing up every step of the way, he had a hundred exit ramps in front of him, and he didn’t take a single one of them, no matter how obvious they were.

A small sigh escapes his lips, and he unlocks his door, pushing it open.

There’s still traces of the barghests on the floor of his living room, ethereal dust scattered over his floor. He ignores it, does his best not to look at it, and just takes the stairs up to his room.

He knows he should be scared. He knows that without Geralt, all that’s standing between him and another pack of barghests or whatever else might be flung at him is a little amulet hanging around his neck, an amulet he only just realized he forgot to take off. He’s back home, back where he’s already been found, and the only magic concealing him, protecting him, is an amulet that could be taken off easily enough. And something about that knowledge does make him tense, but mostly... Mostly his heart feels heavy, his breath hitches every so often when he thinks of Geralt. He doesn’t quite understand why, not when they hardly know each other, but he supposes the why doesn’t matter. The why doesn’t matter because he’s sure there’s no fixing this - he read the anger on Geralt’s voice, and he knows that Geralt knows he’s sent Jaskier off into danger. He’s been cast out, and he really doesn’t see a way back.

So he does what he does whenever all he really wants to do is curl up in bed and not get up for another century or so - he picks up his guitar and he plays.

*****

Over the next few weeks, he composes and posts more songs than he has in months. It helps, to some extent, and although he’s sure it does very little to protect him from the monsters that lay in wait, he’s happy to say that when he’s inevitably torn apart, he’ll be feeling at last ten per cent better. Of course, he could always try running, but he doesn’t see the point of facing the now dangerous roads to try to run from something that will find him the moment the amulet is gone. No, if he’s going to face this, he’d rather face it at home and welcome it with a song. At the very least, it’s far more poetic than being found dead in a ditch inside an overturned car.

So he stays, and he composes. He writes about his time in the ranch, he writes the story of a bard who’s taken in by a kind witcher, and he writes the story of that bard harboring a terrible secret that he’s too frightened to share with his new friend. He writes the tale of the bard being cast out, and of him spending the rest of his days roaming, singing the praises of the friend he could have had. The bard always walks the roads rather than riding them, though, for he’s still hoping that one day the witcher will forgive him and teach him how to ride a horse himself.

He writes the song the bard would’ve sung to the witcher if he ever ran across him once again, a song of apologies, a song of friendship and regret, and after long deliberation, he posts it. There’s no point in having it be something private, something between just him and Geralt, when he knows Geralt will never hear it, he’ll never have the chance to sing it to him.

So he writes and he posts, and his renown increases steadily. He gains more followers, more of his songs start popping up everywhere, and even the ones that don’t really make it gain a bit of a following. Deciding to dive in headfirst - he always did like writing, and this has absolutely nothing to do with getting a distraction from Geralt, not at all - he makes a blog, and he starts writing about his songs, answering questions, anything that just feels right. The blog, young as it might be, seems to be going well.

And he’s enjoying it. It’s been a long time since he’s last done anything like this. Writing again... it’s a good way to process his feelings. It’s nice, it’s good - cathartic, in some sense. So he stays in. Delivery these days costs as much as the food, and most of the time Jaskier is hesitant to put some poor delivery person through it - though he supposes that if people don’t ask for delivery it just means that they’ll be out of a job, so he’s not quite sure how that balances out - but that day he decides to go for it, to just immerse himself in his writing.

A knock comes to his door, and he rushes downstairs from his small study - which is to say, the moderate-sized room where all homeless objects go to die and thus give the impression of a small and cramped study - to answer it, a few ducats already in hand. He throws the door open, eager to calm his rumbling stomach, but he stops dead a moment later, his smile falling away.

It’s not a delivery person.

Before him, in all his towering glory, stands the White Wolf.

“Geralt,” he says before he can stop himself, eyes wide, his voice little more than a whisper.

To his merit, Geralt doesn’t stand in silence, though he does seem about as dumbstruck as a Jaskier. Why seems to be a mystery, though, for he knows very well where Jaskier lives and he must have made the decision to go there.

“Jaskier,” he greets, shuffling slightly. After a moment, he fishes something out of his leather jacket and moves to hand it over to Jaskier. “Your charger,” he explains.

“Oh,” Jaskier replies without much enthusiasm, deflating a little. Still, he takes it from the witcher, and if the motion takes a second longer than it should, Jaskier tells himself that it’s just because he’s still recovering from the shock of the whole situation. “Uh, thanks. I got another one, but... it’s always good to have a spare.”

By all logic, Geralt should leave now. He’s delivered the charger back to its home, and he’s got no more business with Jaskier. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stands at the door for several more moments, the silence complete. In a small town like that, nights are usually quiet, but these days even more so than usual. He can hear the sound of a moth crashing into his porch lights, and it’s a little disturbing. Still, Jaskier stands there, quiet, for he doesn’t know what he could possibly say to Geralt right now, and it’s a first for him. Usually, he’d turn into a blubbering idiot before being struck dumb as he has.

Thankfully, after several long moments of silence, Geralt speaks up. “I saw your songs. Your blog.”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open. “You did? How?”

Geralt lives in the twenty-first century, sure, but that’s the extent of his involvement with it - he has to exist in that moment of space-time, but he doesn’t have to interact with it, apparently. Really, Jaskier never thought there was an option there, but Geralt proved him wrong over the time he spent at the ranch. He has a phone, he can operate it well enough to add contacts, make calls and even text, but Jaskier isn’t sure he even knows which one the internet browser button is.

If he didn’t know better, Jaskier might even think that a faint blush graces Geralt’s cheeks as he answers. He certainly looks ever so slightly uncomfortable. “The woman at the library showed me. Yennefer... Yennefer called. She mentioned your success. I... got curious.”

Geralt went to a library to look him up. Geralt of Rivia used the internet for him.

He’s not sure why that makes him feel so important, so warm, but it does. There’s no hiding the smile on his face as he asks, “and what did you think? Do you like it? The songs, the blog?”

It takes Geralt a moment, but he eventually smiles, nodding. “I thought the tale of the bard was particularly interesting. And if I was that witcher, after hearing that apology song, I think I might... I think I would forgive the bard, actually. So long as he promised that there would be no more secrets, not where his safety is involved.”

Jaskier blinks, blindsided, but he quickly nods and gods, is he smiling? He should be smiling, this is good news, isn’t it? Geralt is there and Geralt forgives him, and he sags as a weight is lifted off his shoulders, a weight he didn’t realize was even that heavy. Did he remember to smile? He really has to - oh, wait, he is. He’s smiling, he’s positively beaming. Now how do words go again? Oh, right. “And I think the bard, if the witcher said that, he’d agree. And he’d tell the witcher how incredibly stupid he was to keep that secret in the first place, and how terribly sorry he is. And that he should have realized that even if it didn’t compromise both of their safeties... there was really no harm in telling him about it.”

A smile forms on Geralt’s lips. “Can we drop the metaphor now?”

“Of course. Not that it was ever much of a metaphor anyway, we are a witcher and a bard. Just in modern times.”

“You’re not a bard, you’re a musician.”

“Am I or am I not a story-teller, music composer and oral historian of one Geralt of Rivia, telling the world about your adventures?”

“You wrote one song,” Geralt argues.

Jaskier smirks. “Oh, no, no, no - you see, while you were running around the ranch yelling at me to stay away from the goats, the bulls, that one stallion that gets really testy when I play Toss a Coin, and pretty much every other animal in the ranch even though they all found me delightful -“

“The goats tried to eat your shirt.”

“Well, what can I say, they’ve got good taste. Anyway, as I was saying, while you were running around the ranch, I was composing a series of songs about your adventures, or what I managed to piece together from all your grunts. Now, they’re still a work in progress thanks to your stinginess in the details, but I think they’ll make a great album once I manage to get some more information. So, I’m a bard. Your bard.”

Geralt sighs, running a hand over his face. “You’re going to stick with this, aren’t you?”

Jaskier beams. “Oh, definitely. This is perfect, I love it.”

There’s another sigh and Geralt shakes his head, but he doesn’t say a single word, which Jaskier takes as him slowly coming around to the idea.

Still smiling, Jaskier steps aside to let the witcher in. Summer greeted them in full force in the afternoon, which means that the cool evening brings no small relief, but there are monsters lurking in the darkness, and it’s not safe outside. “Come in, come in!” Jaskier invites him energetically. “Though maybe I should start packing - I mean, if you’ll let me stay at the ranch again. I keep worrying that the cord on this amulet will snap and I’ll lose it, and then who know how long it’ll take that woman to find me? I mean, how old even is this leather?”

He’s already turned around and started to make his way up the stairs by the time he’s done speaking, so he doesn’t see the look on Geralt’s face, but he does hear the hesitation in his tone, which brings his ascent to a stop. “In the interest of no more secrets... Jaskier, there’s something I should tell you. The amulet, it doesn’t actually work.”

It takes Jaskier a moment to fully process what Geralt is telling him. He braces himself on the railings. “What? But -“

“You fought her off by yourself before. I thought you could do it again, that if you believed you were protected, you’d naturally close yourself off to her. And it worked. I kept a close eye on you at the ranch, just in case, and she never found you. The wards were real, though, to keep you safe in your sleep.”

Jaskier frowns. “But here I...”

Geralt leans back outside and picks up a rock discarded in the flowerbed. It has a small, purple carving in it, very much like the ones he saw around the ranch.

“How?” he asks.

“I figured you’d be here. I came back in the night, put up the stone sigils, cast Yrden. You... I was angry. But I wasn’t going to let you die. I thought you might sense the spells, but it was a risk worth taking.”

“I did. I think. But I thought it was just wishful thinking. Oh! That reminds me, some gossip I picked up being back in town - remember the whole thing with the wraiths and the cemetery, the argument you had with the mayor just before the barghests came? Turns out that the people he sent there just refused to go in. They mutinied. The mayor didn’t want to report them because it’d reflect badly on him, so now... the whole place is just barricaded. A few days ago someone died and the coroner just had to send the body to the neighboring town. They’re saying the cemetery is full but... that’s not gonna last.”

“What are you saying, Jaskier?”

“I’m saying that if you wanted to talk to the mayor again about the wraiths, then... maybe he’d be more willing to listen this time around,” Jaskier suggests.

Geralt looks at him for a long moment, then he shakes his head. “No.”

“Oh, come on, he might even agree to pay you now that your services are undeniably invaluable!”

“He made his position clear more than once. Besides, we have more important things to worry about. If the cemetery is barricaded, then the wraiths won’t harm anyone. They don’t leave their territories.”

“Geralt...” Jaskier whines, pouting slightly in a dramatic display.

Geralt sighs. “Why is this so important to you?”

“I don’t know, a bit of excitement, maybe? I’ll have you know I’ve been mostly cooped up since I left the ranch, and the most exciting thing that’s happened since then - apart from you so eloquently using metaphors to accept my apology - was when they briefly shut down the water supply in the whole neighborhood because there were giant centipedes passing through town and they didn’t want to attract them with the vibrations of the water passing through the pipes.”

“Giant centipedes? They can cause a lot of trouble.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Eh, everything was fine.”

Geralt is silent, and Jaskier climbs the stairs back to his room so he can start packing. Really, terrible as the first few days of this brave new world were, Jaskier finds that he kind of misses the excitement. Between the barghests and the fiend, being tackled by Geralt at his front door... he’s realized that he wants more. He wants to see the life of a witcher, and he wants to write about it, he wants to compose songs of his heroic deeds, he wants people to appreciate what he can do for society. Toss a Coin is already such a hit, he’s sure he can do more. And as for his own problem... well, that’s on the backburner until they can get a few more clues, isn’t it? Why not spend some of that time witchering before retiring to the very nice, very comfortable ranch where he can laze around for days writing his songs? Surely Geralt would like to help, too? He saw how angry it made him when he wasn’t allowed to take care of the wraiths and protect those who’d be sent in his stead.

But he’ll wait for Geralt to come around rather than insist - he still has things to do, a blog to update, and horseback-riding lessons that are owed to him. So he packs for the ranch, filling two suitcases before deciding to grab a backpack, too, and stuffing it enough that he can see the stitching struggling against the pressure once he zips it.

When he clambers downstairs, though, Geralt having to run to his rescue lest he fall down the stairs with his heavy bags, the witcher looks decidedly less pensive.

“Fine,” he grumbles as he sets the bags down on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. When Geralt handles them, it seems as if they weigh nothing.

Jaskier blinks. “Fine... what?”

“I’ll speak with the mayor again, see if I can get a contract on the wraiths. But I won’t do it if he won’t pay, not anymore.”

“Fair enough.” He’s fighting back a smile, trying his best not to jump with excitement because something tells him that it would be wildly inappropriate.

Geralt carries his bags all the way to the driveway, Jaskier struggling with his backpack behind him, and he sets them down beside the deep purple car parked in front of the garage. Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him - sure, they could take Jaskier’s car, but where’s Roach? He’s never seen the witcher go far without his trusty horse.

“I’m not having Roach carry your luggage,” Geralt explains, seemingly understanding Jaskier’s silent question.

“What? Why not? She carries your armor and swords around,” Jaskier argues.

Geralt makes a sound that Jaskier has to assume is a laugh. “Your bags weigh more than Kaer Morhen’s entire supply of silver and steel swords combined. You drive. I’ll ride.”

And with that, Geralt starts to make his way down the road, where Jaskier finally spots Roach happily grazing on a slightly overgrown patch of grass on the sidewalk. He glances around. Surely someone must see the horse standing on the sidewalk right in the middle of a residential street? But there’s no one at the windows, no one walking out their door and pointing.

“I’ll see you at the ranch,” Geralt says, and with those words, he hoists himself onto the saddle and Roach canters down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear the giant centipedes are an honest-to-goodness monster that show up at least on one of the games, I didn’t make that up.
> 
> Also, for those of you who are waiting for Yen to make a proper appearance, I’ve got the next three chapters or so vaguely plotted out, and she should appear within that time! I don’t want to give anything away, but I thought you should know since I’ve been promising Yen since chapter two.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt goes through fifty levels of annoyed at Jaskier, and another fifty of being fond of Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little late, but I’m back at uni and still working out classes and stuff!
> 
> Originally, this was meant to be two separate chapters (kind of a part 1 and part 2) but I decided it worked better as a single chapter, so it’s kinda long!

It’s dark when they reach the cemetery. Jaskier’s protests that they should really wait for dawn fall on deaf ears, and he’s left to stand by the gates, an oil lantern all that lights his surroundings - he never thought to pack a flashlight, and Geralt has apparently never upgraded. He’s unbothered by the darkness, though, forging ahead easily and claiming that the full moon is all he needs to be able to see.

They’ve been at the cemetery for the better part of half an hour now, and they’ve yet to see a single wraith. Jaskier is starting to suspect that this whole thing was never anything more than post-monster revival paranoia.

“Hey, Geralt, do you think we could maybe... go now?” he asks from his spot firmly planted next to the gate.

He can’t see Geralt well in the gloom, but he doesn’t need to - he knows immediately that the witcher barely bothers to turn around before he says, “no.”

Jaskier sighs. This whole thing is starting to seem like a terrible idea. He thought it’d be great to get to see a witcher in action when he’s not also fighting for his life, he thought it’d be great to help the people from his town and give them back their cemetery, but now... The longer he stands at the gate, the more tense he becomes. At any second, a wraith is going to jump out at them, and why exactly did he want that?

Deciding that an idle mind is his worst enemy there, Jaskier ventures deeper into the cemetery, examining the tombstones. Most of them are simple - just the person’s name, their date of birth and date of death, sometimes followed by a short, sweet phrase. A few are a little more elaborate, with a quote or some funny saying on their headstone. Jaskier smiles at that, thinking that this is how he, too, would like to be remembered.

Before his thoughts can be taken in a more morbid direction, though, he hears a twig snap and he freezes.

A few feet away, standing next to a mausoleum, Geralt freezes, too.

It takes Jaskier a few seconds to realize that something is wrong. No wraith would cause a twig to snap - he might not be any expert, but everyone knows that wraiths float, they don’t move by placing one foot in front of the other as they did in life. They’re immaterial, for the most part, passing through objects whenever they choose - and the only time they don’t is when they’re attacking.

He turns around.

Sitting on one of the slates is a woman, dark curls framing her face, her tattered long dress looking strangely appropriate in the setting. He find her eyes, sorrowful and distant, and realizes that although he’s far closer to her, she’s paying him no mind, her focus entirely on Geralt. Jaskier opens his mouth to address her, confused by her presence in the cemetery, her clothes, the fact that something about her just feels off, but she beats him to it - she opens her mouth, lets out a heart-wrenching cry, nearly a shriek in its desperate screaming tone, and vanishes, dissolving into the air.

Jaskier stares at the spot she occupied, and, lost in his thoughts, he nearly jumps when he hears footsteps right next to him. As he glances up, though, he finds the comfortable sight of a head of white hair, golden eyes shining like a cat’s in the darkness. Geralt.

“What was that?” he asks, his voice nearly a murmur.

Geralt’s answer comes after a pause. “A banshee.” Then, after a moment, he adds, “it’s harmless.”

Jaskier frowns. There’s something in Geralt’s voice, something he’s not quite used to hearing. It’s concern, but a different kind of concern, almost... personal. “If it’s harmless, then why do you seem worried?”

Geralt sighs, lets out a small grunt, then hesitates for a moment before finally speaking. “They herald death.”

“D-death?” Jaskier stutters, blinking at the witcher. Sure, he’s heard stories of banshees screaming and bringing death upon someone, but he’s never really paid them much mind - the stories he likes are those of grand romances, adventures, narrow escapes, and if death must be in it, he likes it to be as romantic as he’s recently found it never truly is. Stories, he still holds, ought not to be rooted in reality, as no one listens to them because they’re happy with the world. “Whose death? Yours? Mine? Or is it just death in general? Geralt!” He’s hardly given the witcher time to reply, but he doesn’t care, he just needs answers.

Geralt sighs once again, shaking his head. “A death in the family.”

“What, should I call my mother, then? My father? Aunts, uncles?”

Although Jaskier firmly believes the matter has not been resolved in any way, shape or form, Geralt is walking away, scanning the cemetery with that same cat-like calm and grace that Jaskier thinks must make monsters run with their tails tucked between their legs.

“I thought you weren’t talking to them,” Geralt finally answers, a hint of a snarl in his voice.

“This is not the time to be nasty, Geralt!” Jaskier admonishes, anger clear in his voice.

For a moment, he thinks Geralt is just going to ignore him, but he finally stops in front of the slate where the banshee sat and turns his head towards Jaskier. “Your family is safe. It’s not you it was addressing, it was me.”

Jaskier pales. His heart stills. Geralt’s family. Oh, goodness, he hadn’t even considered that, had he? He never thought he could have family - he spent weeks in that house, and in that time, he never saw a single picture. No signs of a spouse, of children, parents, siblings, uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, not even close friends. He figured that Geralt was just... solitary. Unattached. But apparently he does have a family, and they’re in danger.

“Oh, Geralt, I’m so sorry,” he says, taking a few steps towards the witcher. He wants to reach out, place a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he’s not sure the gesture would be welcome. “We - we’ll go home now. We’ll call your family, warn them. Maybe we can rush there, we can help them.”

Geralt shakes his head. “No, Jaskier. I don’t have a family.”

Jaskier frowns. “But you just said -“

“It must have meant my mother. She’s a sorceress, she could still be alive.”

“Well, then -“

“I haven’t seen her since I was a child. I wouldn’t even know where to find her. Whatever happens to her... it has nothing to do with me. She gave that up when she handed me over to the witchers.”

Silence falls upon them for a moment. Jaskier doesn’t know what to make of this, doesn’t know how to process everything that Geralt is saying to him. He knows very little of the witcher’s history, and even less of his personal life and feelings. He’s learning how to read them, and he thinks he’s made very good progress on that front, but it’s not easy when Geralt gives him so little to go on. And now... this is a lot. There’s so much to unpack.

And yet... Yet he can’t shake the nagging feeling that that’s not it, or at least that Geralt thinks it might not be it.

So he ventures a guess. “And what about Yennefer?”

Geralt quickly turns to look at him - too quickly. He was right, then.

“Yennefer is not my family,” he says after a beat, his eyes turning to focus on the slate once again.

“Oh, isn’t she? You’ve got boxes of her things at your place, you avoid the subject by any means necessary - she’s clearly important to you, Geralt.”

A pause. Then, “important, yes. But family? No. Whatever there was between us ended long ago.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s not family. Say, if she called you asking for help, something serious, would you even hesitate before going to her? Even if it meant a sacrifice on your part?”

“Of corse not.”

Jaskier smiles, though it’s small, a slight curve of his lips. “There you go, then.”

Geralt stares at him once again, that intense gaze that makes him feel as though the witcher is searching his soul. Then, he looks away once again, letting out a small grunt. “It’s not her,” he insists. “Let’s keep looking. The mayor won’t hold the contract long, I’d rather have this done by morning.”

A small sigh leaves Jaskier’s lips, and he turns around to continue his search. Clearly, nothing he says to the witcher will make any difference whatsoever. And who knows, maybe Geralt is right. Maybe it’s not Yennefer, maybe it’s someone who Geralt has long forgotten in the foggy memories of a childhood cut short. What does he know of monsters, after all?

So he busies himself with wandering the rows of headstones and reading epitaphs, vaguely frowning at the odd familiar surname. Some of the people he knows have been in town for generations, and the cemetery stands as clear proof of that. It’s funny - his own family has been in the area of Lettenhove for centuries and he’s always found that to be... stifling, somehow. But here, seeing families that have long set down roots in town, he finds the thought to be comforting, endearing. He finds himself wondering whether, if he has children, grandchildren, they’ll grow up there. Maybe they’ll have a chance to run through Geralt’s ranch during their summer vacation, have the life he wishes he’d had.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by a contemplative hum, followed by a ‘Jaskier’ that just barely toes the line between soft and sharp. Still trying to put a name to that tone, he makes his way back to the witcher’s side.

“Look,” he prompts, nodding at that same slate where the banshee sat.

Jaskier crouches down and observes it carefully. For a moment, he sees nothing special, but the more he focuses, the more he begins to see strange markings just barely discernible from the regular engravings. He reaches out, fingers just barely brushing over an etching, and he can feel the slight crackle of electricity - no, magic - against his skin.

“It’s a curse,” Geralt explains. “It’s what’s drawing the wraiths here.”

Frowning slightly, Jaskier pushes himself back to his feet. “Again, I fail to understand why someone would summon monsters here. Don’t we have quite enough of them already?”

“The wraiths are guarding something, must be. And a spike in the monster population, a spike in deaths? It’s the perfect cover. There’s something in the cemetery someone doesn’t want found,” Geralt concludes.

“That... makes sense. But there’s just one thing - where are the wraiths? Geralt, we’ve been wandering the cemetery for ages, we’ve found a banshee, found the curse, and we still haven’t seen a single wraith.”

“Banshees are wraiths,” Geralt points out, “but you make a good point. They probably won’t appear unless whatever they’re guarding is threatened. We haven’t looked hard enough.”

“Well, then, maybe it’s not a problem after all, because if we haven’t found it yet, then no one will unless they’re looking for it. Let’s just tell the mayor not to host any scavenger hunts in the cemetery and call it a day, shall we?”

Geralt breathes out a small, exasperated sigh. “Jaskier, aside from the fact that someone could accidentally stumble onto what the wraiths are guarding and be killed, the spirits won’t be allowed to move on until the curse is broken.”

A small groan escapes Jaskier’s lips, and he turns around, starting to scan the tombstones once again. “It’s never quite that easy, is it?”

“No. But I thought you wanted this.”

“I wanted something exciting, something... something interesting, maybe even something I could write a song about. This is boring. Wandering the cemetery for three hours, who even wants to hear about that, much less do it.”

“It’s been about half an hour.”

“Feels like longer,” Jaskier complains.

The slight chuckle that leaves Geralt’s lips might even be called fond. Jaskier chooses to interpret it as such. “You won’t find it so boring when you’re hiding from wraiths.”

“Maybe.” Jaskier shrugs slightly.

They continue to wander the cemetery. About two minutes in, Jaskier is already terribly bored. Really, reading the tombstones was fun for a while, but it’s long since gotten old. He leans against one of them, fishes a small notepad from his pocket, along with a tiny little pencil, and begins to play around with some lyrics -

Then nearly falls over backwards as Geralt immediately calls him over.

Glancing over at the witcher’s location, Jaskier decides that it’s not physically possible for Geralt to have seen him slacking off, so he just takes a deep breath, pockets his notepad and pencil, then rushes over to the mausoleum on whose entrance Geralt lingers, golden eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Look,” the witcher prompts, nudging a leaf slightly with his foot. Beneath it, a small sigil lays hidden. “We should look inside.”

Geralt goes in first. He carefully slinks forward, already in a fighting pose, while Jaskier trails after him, nervously glancing left and right. He’s never seen a wraith before, save for the banshee. He has no idea what they’ll actually look like, or what they’re capable of doing. He knows they kill, he’s read that they’re angry, sorrowful, trapped spirits that lash out at the living, but he can’t really imagine them. Will they look like ghosts on TV? Or something a little more familiar, like the banshee? The thought of it makes him shiver, the gloomy mausoleum and musty smell only adding realism to his thoughts.

He finds himself suddenly very close to the witcher, almost certainly invading his personal space. Golden eyes stare at him, and Jaskier takes a step back, gulping.

The doors slam shut behind them.

Jaskier jumps, and he would have crashed into Geralt if the witcher didn’t expertly spin out of the way, whirling around so that he’s facing the now shut doors. He hasn’t drawn his sword yet, but a quick glance around the small room tells Jaskier that there’s no need for it just yet - the wraiths haven’t arrived, or at least they haven’t shown themselves just yet.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, his tone careful, “check the doors.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him. “Me? Check the doors? No, you do it! You’re the big bad witcher, I’m just a musician! If I go over there, I’m going to be torn apart!”

A small, patient sigh leaves Geralt’s lips. “It’s either the wraiths or the wind. If it’s the wind, then we have nothing to worry about. If it’s the wraiths, then they’ll show up deeper into the mausoleum, not at the doors. They need space to fight. Trust me, you’ll be fine.”

Gulping down an anxious sound, Jaskier nods. Really, he’s not happy about this, but he trusts Geralt. He trusts that if he’s telling him that he’ll be fine, then he’ll be fine. So, slowly, he makes his way towards the doors and tries to nudge them open.

Nothing.

He puts a little more effort into it, tries to push them open.

Nothing.

He slams into them with his shoulder, hard enough that he bounces back and staggers a little as he tries to stay on his feet.

Nothing.

Giving in, he glances back at Geralt and shakes his head. The witcher replies with a small ‘hm’. It’s all the permission Jaskier needs to quickly move away from the door and back to the perceived safety of the middle of the room, and the not exclusively perceived safety of being next to the witcher.

They’re trapped in a not too large mausoleum with only one obvious exit, and their only source of light is an oil lantern that does very little to chase the darkness away. Jaskier is less than thrilled about that. On the plus side, this is far, far more interesting than wandering around the cemetery aimlessly for what at very least felt like an eternity. It’ll make for an excellent song, assuming that they make it out of there alive. Well, Geralt will get them out of it, he has complete faith in the witcher.

“Geralt,” he starts after a moment, brows furrowing, “what exactly is going on here? Why won’t the door open? Can wraiths lock doors? I was under the impression that they weren’t particularly... intelligent.”

“The subject of a wraith’s abilities is complicated,” Geralt answers. Jaskier is sure that he’d have left it at that had the musician not fixed a glare on him that he’s certain to be able to see even in the poor lighting of the mausoleum with his cat eyes. “Some wraiths have magical abilities - telekinesis, for example. Some are even able to communicate and remember their lives, though those are usually harmless. This one... the curse is probably fuelling it, directing it to keep us away from something, or to stop us from leaving the cemetery.”

Jaskier nods. “And how exactly are we meant to get out of here?”

“I don’t know. Look for any weaknesses in the walls.”

It doesn’t take long to scan the mausoleum. It’s small and cramped, and since Geralt can see just fine in the moonlight, Jaskier gets sole use of the oil lantern, allowing them to go their separate ways. The building seems old, and the dates in the urns and burial plots confirm it - it’s at least a hundred years old, though Jaskier is willing to bet it was built even before that. The stones that line its walls are old and worn, but they’re also sturdy - he can find nary a crack, and the few faults he spots are not enough for Geralt to be able to force open. Within half an hour, they’re both standing at the center of the mausoleum again, eyes following a wraith as it passes by a narrow window that Geralt has already told Jaskier he can’t widen.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks after a moment.

“Yes?”

There’s a small moment of hesitation, then Jaskier continues, “We’re not... We’re going to find a way out, right?”

“Jaskier -“

“No,” he suddenly interrupts, shaking his head. “I want you to be honest with me.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, and Jaskier feels his blood turn cold. He’s going to say they might not, isn’t he? He’s going to say that there’s a chance that they’ll die trapped in a mausoleum, because the cemetery is barricaded and no one will be by visiting graves, no one will hear their calls for help. He looks at the witcher, eyes pleading for a different response. An honest, different response. And something flashes in those golden eyes for a moment before Geralt’s expression settles into stony determination.

“We’ll find a way out,” he assures Jaskier. “We just need time. Did you bring your phone?”

A small laugh escapes Jaskier’s lips. “You’ve only just now thought of that? I did bring my phone, yes, but it’s uh... dead. Sorry.”

“Can you charge it?”

“Can I charge my phone in the middle of a mausoleum? And one that was built over a century ago at that?” He raises an eyebrow at Geralt, who stares him down. After a moment, he relents, though with no small amount of amusement in his voice. “No, Geralt, I can’t.”

The witcher huffs. Jaskier sighs.

He leans against the large stone - coffin? Is that what those things are? - and sets the lamp down on it, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room. He wishes that he understood more about the situation they’re in, but he knows he’s probably lucky to have gotten as much out of Geralt as he did. He’s not even sure that the witcher understands too much about it.

“Hey, Geralt?” he asks after a moment.

“Hm?”

“Do you think it’s the same person who’s after me for whatever reason? You know, the person who cast this curse?”

Geralt doesn’t answer right away, and he slips into a somehow even more quiet mood that Jaskier is tentatively calling thoughtful. “Could be,” he finally relents. “Could be something else entirely.”

Jaskier nods. “Then... is it possible that we’ve stumbled into their super-secret laboratory or something like that?”

“It is. I haven’t sensed any magic in this room, no inactive portals or magically concealed doors or entrances, but it’s hard to scan for magic right now.”

“Why?”

“Because of you.”

“Oh. Right.” Jaskier nods.

It’s easy to forget that he apparently radiates magic, or at least enough to send Geralt’s medallion spinning. He’s never really been magical before. Or, well, no one has pointed it out to him before. Has he been stumbling through life with some modicum of magical ability all the while being none the wiser? At this point, the concept doesn’t seem all that far-fetched. Oh, how his standards have lowered.

Geralt shifts, turning towards him with a frown on his face. Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him.

“I can’t sense anything,” he starts, “but it’s possible you can.”

The eyebrow raises a little higher.

“You could sense the protective spell. You sensed the tracking spell, too,” Geralt points out.

Jaskier sighs. “Yeah, but that’s - that’s different, Geralt! The tracking spell was being done to me, and the protective spells... I knew you were casting them. And then back home, that doesn’t count, I don’t even know if I really sensed it. I’m not a magic detector, I don’t - I don’t even know what I am!”

A heavy hand settles on his shoulder, and he has to glance down at it and then slowly follow it up to Geralt to be sure that it really is the witcher and not some kind of trick. He never seems to mind the fact that Jaskier is rather tactile, but he himself - he keeps a distance, Jaskier has noticed.

Geralt is looking at him with that intense look he gets sometimes, and Jaskier’s heart does something strange in his chest that he decides to ignore completely because he’s trapped in a mausoleum and he cannot afford to analyze it right now.

“You’re Jaskier,” Geralt offers, his tone still carrying that familiar steely Geralt-ness, but also something warmer. It’s... comforting, strangely. He finds himself relaxing under the weight of that hand, under the gaze of those eyes, hearing that uncharacteristically warm tone. “And at times, you’ve been able to sense magic. Perhaps you can do it again, and if you can, we’ll be one step closer to leaving. If you can’t, we’ll think of something else. But it doesn’t hurt to try, does it?”

Geralt is blunt and honest, he always has been, but this is the first time that Jaskier realizes he can mix that into his own brand of comfort, and it brings a smile to the musician’s lips despite the situation. His shoulders square, and he radiates a newfound confidence. Geralt is right, of course he’s right. It’s worth a shot, and if he can do it, if he can detect magic, then... Well, they’ll either be digging themselves into a bigger hole or digging themselves out of one, but either way, they’ll be moving forward, and that’s all Jaskier really needs.

It comes as a surprise, just how delicate Geralt can be. Calloused hands guide Jaskier’s towards the likely suspects, and he lets his fingers hover just over urns, stone, long-wilted flowers and dust-covered books. He tries, he searches for the crackling electricity he felt before with such avid dedication that he’s at risk of imagining it where it doesn’t exist, but even then, he finds nothing.

They end up at the center of the mausoleum, and when Jaskier glances outside, he finds the sky a few shades lighter. Dawn approaches, and they’re still trapped in the mausoleum. But they’ll get out, Geralt promised him so.

“In the cold and dark of night / the witcher and the bard did wait / trapped in a tomb of memories / now long forgotten, forgotten, in time.”

“What are you doing?” Geralt growls.

“Well, I’m singing, of course! Composing my next song, actually. This is great material, really, Geralt, I’m glad I talked you into this.”

“You’re glad? You didn’t seem so happy a couple of hours ago.”

“Yes, but then you promised we’d get out. I’ll admit I’m not really a big fan of old, dusty mausoleums with eerie wraiths flying around outside, and this place really could use better lighting, but... oh, the sacrifices we make for art. So, what do you think of it?”

“Of what?”

“The song!”

There’s a pause, and Jaskier can see Geralt floundering, trying to grasp at some semblance of an answer. Perhaps Jaskier delights in that a little too much, but he’s been at the cemetery for the better part of the night and he’s tired and bored and wishing he’d brought his guitar, so he allows himself to smirk as he watches the gears in Geralt’s head turn.

“It doesn’t rhyme,” Geralt finally answers.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and lets out a dramatic sigh. “Everyone’s a critic. I’ll have you know, the rhymes come later. Do you want to listen to the rest of it?”

It’s possible to see the word ‘no’ form in Geralt’s lips before he sighs, shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against a pillar. “Fine.”

A huge smile forms on Jaskier’s lips, and he hops down from where he sat next to the oil lantern, one hand moving to rest over his heart. “Oh, Geralt, I never knew you were such a fan! Alright, here’s what I’ve got - now bear in mind that I don’t have my guitar with me, so we’ll have to do without instrumental accompaniment. Where were we? Oh, right!

“Now long forgotten, forgotten, in time / the witcher, with all his might / shied not from specter or wraith / but magic entrapped them in centuries / long past, forgotten, forgotten, in time.

“So?” he asks, bouncing on his toes as he finishes the next stanza. “What do you think?”

“It’s... good.”

“Good?”

“It rhymes.”

“You’re the worst reviewer, Geralt,” he shakes his head, but the smile on his lips is amused, almost teasing. “Oh, well, I shall relish the fact that you allowed me to sing to you with only mild complaining rather than worrying about that.”

But Geralt isn’t listening anymore, his eyes fixed on something in the opposite wall.

Rough fingers run over a delicate ring, tracing its carvings, the hills and valleys of the metal, the facets of the light green stone. Geralt’s brows pinch together, and he brings it over to an expectant Jaskier, who reaches out instinctively, curious, only to flinch and pull his hand back. It doesn’t hurt, it never does, but the crackling feeling is still new and unexpected, and he can’t quite help his reaction. “Yep, that’s it. That’s definitely it,” Jaskier confirms.

Geralt just hums.

“So what now? How do you activate it?”

“Some magic needs to be fuelled to activate. Hold it, I’ll cast a Sign.”

“Fine, but no throwing me across the room, I like my bones unbroken, please and thank you,” Jaskier replies, moving to take the ring from the witcher.

He feels the crackling of magic, then the coolness of the metal, and suddenly, the crackling intensifies. It reverberates through the room, it fills the air and tickles his lungs, it crawls up his arm, it makes his ears buzz and his eyes blink against the strange sensation. Then, just as suddenly as it’d started, it subsides, and he’s left feeling nothing but a strange tickle in his fingers that lets him know that there’s still some magic left in the ring.

Geralt’s eyes linger on Jaskier for another moment, then they turn and begin to scan the room. Right, Jaskier thinks to himself, the ring probably did something, there’s no point having a ring that just emanates magic.

And then he spots it. A little trapdoor leading to some kind of basement, hidden away in the corner that had previously contained nothing but a few adornments. It’s clearly more recent than anything else in that mausoleum, the wood still polished and whole, with no signs of damage from the elements, no swelling from humidity, no bits eaten away by insects. This wasn’t built with the rest of the mausoleum, and Jaskier doesn’t like the implications of that.

“Well, it’s not a way out, but it might hold some answers,” Jaskier points out. “Shall we? Oh, do you think they’ll have a bed down there? I’m absolutely exhausted.”

“You’re not napping in a sorcerer’s lair.”

“Lair? Is that the word we’re going with here? And then I’m the dramatic one. And why not, Geralt? I’m tired, and I’m certainly not seeing any better options.”

Geralt apparently decides that the question is not worth answering, for he just keeps quiet and slowly closes the distance between himself and the entrance to the underground level. Jaskier trails closely behind, craning his neck to see over Geralt’s shoulder despite the fact that a simple step sideways would allow him an unobstructed view. He’ll keep a witcher between himself and whatever awaits them down there, thank you very much.

Carefully, Geralt pulls the trapdoor open, then begins to descend the steep steps to the ground. 

Jaskier follows closely after him, though some part of his mind is yelling at him, reminding him that he could very well just wait to see whether Geralt comes across anything particularly terrifying down there before putting himself at risk. He finds that something in him urges him forward, stops him from hanging back.

In the end, it doesn’t matter - after Geralt makes a small movement that lights up a number of candles in the room and causes Jaskier to shriek and fall sitting on the stairs behind him in surprise, they can easily see that no one is home, though the place certainly is home to someone. There is, in fact, a bed, as well as a small kitchen, a little TV nook, with a laptop resting on the couch, and a desk cluttered with books and loose sheets of paper.

“A studio apartment under a mausoleum in a cemetery. Well, the rent must be marvellous,” Jaskier comments, moving forward carefully. “How do they get electricity here?”

“They don’t,” Geralt growls in answer, moving to riffle through the papers on the desk.

“But the TV, the fridge, the microwave, they must all run somehow. I don’t see a generator around.”

Geralt stares at him pointedly.

Slowly, the pieces fall together. “Oh. Magic. Right. Can they get a shower or a toilet or a sink to run on magic, too, I wonder? Maybe they just go out every time they need to go to the toilet, but that must be terribly inconvenient. What if -“

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls out, his voice holding a warning tone.

“Yes?”

Once again, Geralt only stares pointedly at him.

Jaskier sighs, nodding his head with no small amount of annoyance. “Fine, fine. But only because I’d really rather get out of here soon. I’m a bit peckish, do you think we can grab something from the fridge, or is the food likely to be cursed? I’d rather not turn into a frog or anything, they really don’t have the best singing voices.”

Geralt sighs, rolls his eyes, shakes his head and makes a show of ignoring Jaskier, who in turn also rolls his eyes. He’s tired and stuck in the hidden basement of a mausoleum, can’t he at least try to make things more interesting?

After poking around for a little longer and trying his best to be silent, Jaskier eventually ends up settling down on the couch with a book that seems particularly interesting. It’s written in Elder, and Jaskier struggles a little at the beginning, but the words start registering with more and more ease, and before long he’s comfortably snuggled into the corner of the couch, legs drawn up to his chest, leafing through the book. It’s a brief account of elven magic and while not exactly a riveting read, it’s still interesting enough to get him entranced.

He’s only just reaching a chapter titled ‘Elder Blood’ when Geralt pulls the book from his hands, earning himself a loud protest from Jaskier.

“Hey, I was reading that!” Jaskier complains, reaching for it only for Geralt to hold it out of his grasp once again.

“Yes, and ignoring me. While you were reading, I think I found us a way out of here. Why were you studying elven magic now, of all time, anyway?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Well, I tried to help but I couldn’t find anything interesting and you wanted me to be quiet. The book seemed interesting, so...”

A familiar, long-suffering sigh leaves Geralt’s lips and he walks back to the desk and the documents he analyzed while Jaskier read. “It should be simple to break the curse, and once it’s broken, the door will open.”

“So? What is this place? What’s the curse about?” Geralt raises an eyebrow at Jaskier, who just rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, you know it will be easier to just tell me now and save me from badgering you with a thousand questions later.”

After a moment, Geralt relents. “It’s some sorcerer’s house. I don’t think it’s the same one who attacked you. They’re... conducting some research. Something to do with the monsters, some theory - it seems far-fetched to me.”

“What is it?”

“Another Conjunction of the Spheres. It seems like there was some seismic activity around the time we saw an increase in the monster population that may match the ancient records we still have from the dwarves, then later from the elves and halflings. They’re trying to match up the records and measure the change in the monster population, maybe see if anything new made it through. But something of that scale...”

“It was a big scale change, Geralt. I think the theory has some merit, at least,” Jaskier points out.

Geralt sighs and shakes his head. Jaskier has the feeling that there’s something that he’s not telling him, but he doesn’t press it, fearing that it’d only make Geralt shut him out even further. So instead he claps his hands together and stands up, a big smile on his face in an attempt to change the mood.

“So, how do we break the curse? And wait - if that’s all they’re doing, why all the secrecy? Why the wraiths and the curse and all that?” He asks.

Geralt shrugs. “People aren’t always happy with mages conducting magical research right next door. Or maybe there’s a significance to this place specifically. There are spots that are more magically charged than others. The curse was just an attempt to keep people away - the wraiths are illusions. The door was to lock if anyone but the sorcerer stepped foot in the mausoleum, and the illusions to deter anyone from following and helping.” “The banshee?” Jaskier asks. “That was real. Perhaps it lives here, or maybe it was just drawn here by the curse. Magic can attract wraiths and some other monsters on occasion,” Geralt explains. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s harmless, and may leave once we break the curse anyway. All we need for that is to find what binds the spell. It’ll be something like the ring.”

Jaskier’s eyes immediately land on a circlet he’s been admiring since he first set eyes on it when they walked in, and he reaches out to take it, but stops himself when his fingers are just inches from it.

“What does it need to break the curse? I mean, if I touch it - “

“It should be like... an on-off switch. All it needs is magical energy,” Geralt explains.

Although still with some hesitance, Jaskier reaches out and picks up the circlet. Immediately, he gets the same feeling as before - crackling energy spreading over his skin, buzzing in his ears, filling the air around him, the breath in his lungs. And then it subsides, and he breathes out a small sigh of relief. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to it.

“Well, I guess that must’ve done it,” he assumes, turning the circlet over in his hands a few times. It’s really quite pretty. “Do you think I can keep it? As reparation for what we’ve been put through?”

“Jaskier.” That same warning tone. Jaskier smirks. It’s really starting to grow on him.

“Fine, fine. Party pooper,” he grumbles, though there’s still a smile on his lips that makes it obvious that it’s just good-natured teasing.

They make their way upstairs, Jaskier dropping the circlet back on the shelf where he found it, and out the now unlocked door. Sunlight streams in, warming Jaskier’s skin, and he has to shield his eyes from the morning sky. Suddenly, he feels a lot more tired - he didn’t realize that dawn had come and gone already. It’s early morning, and Jaskier dreads to think that they’ll still have to go all the way back to the ranch before he can get in a few hours of sleep. Silently, they make their way to Roach, and for a second Jaskier dares to think that Geralt’s hesitation before mounting his horse might be a sign that he’s finally going to let him ride her, but the witcher hoists himself on the saddle and starts to canter down the road without a second glance at Jaskier. With a sigh, he follows.

Still, he puts a smile on his lips as he glances up at Geralt. “You know what I’m doing the second we get back to the ranch? I’m going to sleep. Maybe right there on the stables, or on the grass if I can’t make it that far. I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me nap on what looked like a perfectly comfortable bed.”

Geralt hums, and Jaskier wonders absentmindedly whether it’d be too childish to plot his revenge by making sure Geralt gets no sleep himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m terribly sorry I made everyone suffer through my poetry, but I couldn’t resist giving it a crack when I pictured Jaskier singing to himself in the mausoleum. Worry not, it’s probably a one-time thing.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for all the comments/kudos/bookmarks! The response to this fic has been extremely heartwarming, and it’s a always a joy to see that people are enjoying it!


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